,  ;-;KAKi 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


BY   PERCY   MACKAYE 


The  Canterbury  Pilgrims.      A  Comedy, 
Fenris,  the  Wolf.    A  Tragedy. 
Jeanne  D'Arc. 
Sappho  and  Pbaon. 


Uniform,  i2mo.     $1.25  net,  each. 


SAPPHO   AND   PHAON 


*>v     OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
C 


MADAME    KALICH 
As  Sappho.     Act  1. 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

A  Tragedy 


SET  FORTH  WITH  A  PROLOGUE,  INDUCTION, 
PRELUDE,    INTERLUDES,  AND   EPILOGUE 


BY 
PERCY   MACKAYE 


godt 
THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
IQO/ 

All  rights  reserved 

LIBRARY 

fJHIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  May,  1907.     Reprinted 
October,  1907. 


J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Maas.,  U.S.A. 


TO  MARION 

crvv  ftoi  TTIVC,  crwrifia,  trwepa, 

O~U(TT€^)ai/^^>O/>«? 

(TVV    /AO(    /XCUVO/J.O/Q)    [JUlWtO, 

(TVV    ( 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

As  the  manuscript  of  this  play  is  in  press,  the 
report  comes  from  Italy  that  the  momentous  project 
of  Professor  Charles  Waldstein,  of  Cambridge,  Eng 
land,  for  the  excavation  of  Herculaneum  is  once 
more  —  after  some  years  of  vicissitude  —  in  suspense. 

Whether  that  incomparable  undertaking,  mysteri 
ous  with  the  promise  of  hidden  beauty  and  human 
revelation,  shall  be  destined  to  fulfilment,  remains  for 
the  civilizations,  and  preeminently  for  the  Italian 
government,  to  determine. 

In  so  far  as  some  of  its  potential  aspects  have  been 
inspirational  to  the  inductive  portions  of  this  play, 
the  author  desires  to  extend  his  grateful  acknowledg 
ments  to  Professor  Waldstein  for  having  provided 
him  with  frequent  authentic  information  regarding 
the  Herculaneum  project,  and  to  express  his  hope 
that  the  conception  of  that  project  —  one  of  the 
noblest  modern  uses  of  the  imagination  —  may  yet 
attain  to  its  legitimate  aim  and  acclamation. 

The  writer  wishes,  also,  to  express  his  sincere 
appreciation  to  Professor  Francis  W.  Kelsey,  of  the 
University  of  Michigan  (translator  of  Mau's  "  Pom 
peii  "),  for  criticism  of  archaeological  details  in  the 
Prologue  and  Induction ;  to  Robert  Eames  Faulkner, 
of  Keene,  New  Hampshire,  for  his  fine  instigations 
to  the  knowledge  of  those  alluring  Sapphic  Fragments, 
which  breathe  to-day  the  passionate  presence  of 
Sappho  herself ;  to  Barry  Faulkner,  for  the  cover 
design  of  this  volume. 

The  stage  rights  of  the  play,  in  America,  are  owned 
by  Mr.  Harrison  Grey  Fiske,  for  Madame  Bertha 
Kalich. 

P.  M-K. 

CORNISH,  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 
March,  1907. 

be 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

I.  OF  THE  PROLOGUE 

j  *MEDBERY,  an  American  1  Archaologists  engaged    in 

PIETRA  DI   SELVA,  an  Italian  \     the  excavation  at  Hercu- 

'    DR.   ZWEIFEL,  a  German  J      laneum. 

ITALIAN  LABOURERS. 

II.  OF  THE  INDUCTION 

*ACTIUS,  a  Pompeian  player  (enacting  Phaon  in  the  Tragedy). 
SOREX,  a  pantomimist,  from  Pompeii  (enacting  Hercules  in 

the  Interludes  of  the  Tragedy). 
HERACLIUS,    training-master    (Choregus)    of  the    players, 

mimes,   and  pantomimists   at    Varius*  private  theatre  in 

Herculaneum. 
VARIUS,  the  Roman  dramatic  poet,  author  (suppositionally) 

of  the  Tragedy. 

Q.  HORATIUS  FLACCUS  (Horace),  the  Roman  Satirist. 
P.    VERGILIUS   MARO   (Virgil),  the  poet  of  the   Georgics 

and  Eclogues. 
*NjEVOLEIA,  a  mime  (enacting  Sappho  in  the  Tragedy). 

III.  OF  THE  PRELUDE 

PROLOGUS  (announcing  Varius^  Tragedy  before  the  Hercula 
neum  curtain). 

Varius,  Horace,  Virgil,  Mcecenas,  Pollio,  Guests  of  Varius, 
Citizens  of  Herculaneum  (all  as  mutes). 


xii  DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

IV.    OF  THE  TRAGEDY 

(Conceived  as  being  performed  on  the  stage  of  Varius'  theatre.) 
*PHAON,  a  public  slave  and  fisherman  of  Mitylene  in  Lesbos. 

ALQEUS,  the  Greek  lyric  poet,  a  noble  of  Mitylene. 

PITTACUS,  tyrant  of  Mitylene. 

BION,  a  child. 

PRIEST   OF   POSEIDON  (mute). 
*SAPPHO,  the  Lesbian  poetess. 

ANACTORIA,  one  of  her  girl-disciples. 

ATTHIS,  another. 

THALASSA,  a  slave  woman  of  the  sea-beach. 

V.  OF  THE  INTERLUDES 
See  Appendix. 

VI.  OF  THE  EPILOGUE 
*MEDBERY. 

THE   ITALIAN   LABOURERS. 

*  Medbery,  Actius,  and  Phaon  are  impersonated  by  one  and  the  same 
modern  actor;  Naevoleia  and  Sappho,  by  one  and  the  same  modern 
actress. 


TIME  AND  PLACE  OF  ACTION  xiii 


TIME  AND  PLACE  OF  ACTION 

OF  THE  PROLOGUE  :  The  near  (?)  future.  —  A  subterranean  exca 
vation,  beneath  the  modern  Italian  town  of  Resina,  the  ancient 
site  of  Herculaneum.  The  scene  represents  a  shallow,  semi- 
ruinous  chamber,  anciently  used  as  the  Players'*  Quarters 
(behind  the  stage  wall)  of  the  private  theatre  of  Varius,  in 
Herculaneum . 
OF  THE  INDUCTION  :  About  B.C.  25.  —  The  same  spot,  in  its  state 

of  original  use  and  adornment. 

OF  THE  PRELUDE  AND  INTERLUDES  :  About  B.C.  23.  —  The  fore- 
stage  or  orchestra,  in  front  of  the  closed  curtain  of  Varius'1 
theatre. 

OF  THE  TRAGEDY  (conceived  as  being  enacted  B.C.  25,  on  the 
stage  of  Varius'  theatre)  :  About  600  B.C.  —  The  scene,  which 
remains  the  same  throughout,  represents  a  high  promontory, 
overlooking  the  ^Egean  Sea,  near  Mitylene  in  Lesbos ;  the 
temple  of  Aphrodite  and  Poseidon,  exterior. 

ACT  I.  —  A  day  in  Spring]  late  afternoon  and 

sunset. 

ACT  II.  —  The  moonlit  night  of  the  same. 
ACT  III.  —  The  next  morning',  earliest  dawn  until 

sunrise. 

OF  THE  EPILOGUE  :  The  same  scene  as  the  Prologue ;  one  hour 
later. 


EXPLANATION  OF  DIAGRAM 

INDUCTION  SCENE   (Projected) 
a    Modern  audience. 
b    Bronze  bench  (from  which  Horace,  Virgil,  and  Varius  watch  rehearsal  of  the 

Tragedy). 
d    Door,  blocked  by  back  of  ancient  scenery  (viz.  :  the  painted  drop  depicting  the 

jEgean  Sea). 

e    Exit  to  dressing  rooms  of  ancient  players. 
f    Footlights  of  modern  theatre. 
m    Modern  curtain. 

/    Table  of  stone  (at  which  Actius  makes  up  as  Phaon). 
v    Door  to  passageway  leading  to  the  villa  of  Varius. 
iv    Dividing  wall  between  Herculaneum  stage  and  players'  quarters. 


GROUND  PLAN  OF  TRAGEDY 

A  Modern  audience. 

B  Marble  altar  and  base. 

C  Caryatid  of  bronze  (defining  proscenium  opening  of  Herculaneum 

Stage). 

D  Door  of  temple. 

E  Exit  aisle. 

F  Footlights  of  modern  theatre. 

H  Herculaneum  curtain  (disappearing  through  slit  in  floor  of  ancient 

stage). 

M  Modern  curtain. 

O  Orchestra  of  modern  theatre. 

P  Pillar  of  colonnade  in  front  of  temple. 

S  Stage  of  Herculaneum  theatre. 

T  Tier  of  seats  in  Herculaneum  theatre. 

X  Steps  ascending  to  ancient  stage  from  Herculaneum  orchestra  space. 

Y  Separate  seat  of  sculptured  marble. 

Z  Row  of  seats  in  modem  theatre. 


xiv 


GROUND   PLAN   OF  TRAGEDY 

WITH   IMAGINARY   PROJECTION   OF  INDUCTION   SCENE. 


Ex  noto  fictum  carmen  sequar,  ut  sibi  qnivis 
speret  idem,  sudet  multum  frustraque  laboret 

ausus  idem. 

—  HORACE:    De  Arte  Poetica. 


THE   PROLOGUE 

"  Tutt'  altro  del  mi  chiama, 
Addio,  Addio!" 


THE   PROLOGUE 

Before  the  curtain  rises,  voices  of  men  are  heard  singing  in 
harmony.  During  their  song  the  scene  is  disclosed,  re 
vealing  a  subterranean  excavation,  in  the  left  portion  of 
which  Labourers,  with  picks  and  mattocks,  are  digging, 
slowly  and  carefully,  the  blackish  earth.  In  the  obscurity 
of  the  right  exit,  stands  a  mule  with  a  drag-cart,  into 
which  the  workmen,  from  time  to  time,  shovel  the  sifted 
tufa-dust  and  debris. 

By  the  light  of  electric  torches,  the  place  is  seen  to  be  a 
shallow,  oblong  room,  the  semi-ruinous  walls  of  which 
are  painted,  in  Pompeian  style  and  colouring,  with  dim- 
hued  frescoes} 

At  the  back  of  the  scene  are  three  door-spaces ;  the  two  at 
left  and  right  are  boarded  up  with  new  timbers ;  the  one 
at  the  centre  is  closed  by  a  gate  of  iron-grating,  through 
which  —  in  the  darkness  beyond  —  are  barely  visible 
Roman  pillars  and,  behind  those,  what  appear  to  be  the 
circle-formed  tiers  of  stone  seats. 

1  NOTE.  —  Of  these  frescoes  the  centre  one  depicts  several  figures 
in  players'  masks  —  evidently  a  mythological  scene  from  Old  Roman 
Comedy,  wherein  a  grotesque,  bearded  demigod,  in  woman's  chlamys, 
seated  with  a  spindle,  is  spinning  wool,  while  a  nymph,  garbed  in  a 
lion's  skin,  bends  beside  him,  with  her  attendant  nymphs  grouped 
about  her.  From  a  green  coppice  near  by  a  satyr  looks  on,  grinning 
slyly,  surrounded  by  fauns  with  sylvan  pipes. 

3 


4  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOW 

In  the  right  and  the  left  wall,  respectively,  is  a  door-space,  but 
of  that  on  the  left  only  the  upper  portion  is  visible  above 
the  mound  of  earth  which  the  workmen  are  digging 
out ;  that  on  the  right  is  partly  concealed  by  a  pillar  of 
tufa  (rising  to  the  ceiling)  which,  on  that  side,  frames 
the  scene,  thereby  causing  it  to  be  several  feet  narrower 
than  the  actual  proscenium-opening  of  the  modern 
theatre.  The  ceiling  consists  also  of  vaulted  tufa. 

Near  the  back  wall,  centre,  is  a  stone  table  with  sculptured 
front  solid  to  the  ground.  Beside  this,  half  reclined 
with  his  elbows  upon  it,  bending  near  his  torch  over  a 
papyrus  scroll,  is  a  young  man,  in  a  workman's  blouse. 
His  eager  face,  bare  save  for  a  light  moustache,  is  intent 
upon  the  partly  unwound  papyrus  before  him. 

At  the  left,  among  the  excavators,  overseeing  their  digging, 
stands  a  man  with  dark  hair  and  moustache,  evidently 
an  Italian.  Near  him  stands  a  short,  stout,  bearded 
man  with  eye-glasses,  clothed  in  an  ill-fitting  frock  coat. 
He  also  watches  the  workmen  narrowly  as  they  pick, 
sift,  and  shovel  the  hard  black  soil. 

THE  LABOURERS 
[As  they  work,  singing  to  the  popular  melody  I\ 

"  Addio  mia  bella  Napoli, 

Addio,  addio ! 
La  tua  soave  immagine 
Chi  mai,  chi  mai  scordar  potra ! 

"  Del  ciel  T  azzurro  f ulgido, 

La  placida  marina, 
Qual  core  non  inebbria, 

Non  bea,  non  bea  di  volutta ! 


THE  PROLOGUE  5 

"  In  tela  terra  e  V  aura 

Favellano  d'  amore ; 
Te  sola  al  mio  dolore 

Conf orto  io  sognero.  —  Oh  ! 

"  Addio  mia  bella  Napoli, 

Addio,  addio ! 
Addio  care  memorie 

Del  tempo  ah !  che  pass6  ! 

"Tutf  altro  ciel  mi  chiama  —  " 

THE  ITALIAN 

\_Raising  his  hand,  stops  them  in  their  song.~\ 
Basta ! 

[Signing  to  the  head-workman  to  pass  him  an  object  which 
the  latter  has  just  dug  out,  he  takes  it  in  his  hand  and 
examines  it,  then  passes  it  to  the  man  in  the  frock  coat. 
At  the  ceasing  of  the  song,  the  younger  man  in  the  blouse 
has  glanced  up  from  the  table,  and  now,  starting  to  his 
feet,  speaks  to  him  of  the  frock  coat.~\ 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLOUSE 

What's  your  new  find,  Zweifel  ? 

ZWEIFEL 

A  bronze  box. 


What  is  it  ? 


THE  MAN   IN  THE  BLOUSE 
\_Coming  over  to  him.~\ 


6  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ZWEIFEL 

If  you  mean  by  that,  Medbery,  what  was  its  use 
in  ancient  Herculaneum,  that  remains  to  be  deter 
mined  later  — 

[Handing  him  the  box  gingerly,  with  a  wry  look  over  his  eye 
glasses^ 

scientifically,  not  poetically ! 

MEDBERY 

You  forget,  Doctor,  that  this  science  of  ours  is 
poetry. 

\_Taking  the  box  to  the  table,  he  opens  it  with  care,  the  Italian 
looking  over  his  shoulder.~\ 

Small  ivory  compartments  ;  here  are  vials  ;  dust  of 
different  colours  ;  is  this  chalk,  di  Selva  ? 

DI  SELVA 

[Examining  the  dust.~\ 
It  may  once  have  been  paint. 

MEDBERY 
[Eagerly.] 

Paint !     Let  me  look  again. 

\Di  Selva  is  called  aside  by  the  head-workman,  whom  he 
confers  with  and  quietly  directs  concerning  the  work  of 
the  labourers.  Medbery  continues  speaking  half  to  him 
self,  half  to  Zweifel.] 

Here  are  hairs  —  crumbling  already  in  the  air ; 
these  carved  handles  must  have  been  brushes.  And 
what  are  these  letters  on  the  lid  ?  Great  Scott !  this 
proves  it  all.  Do  you  know  what  this  was,  Doctor  ? 


THE  PROLOGUE  7 

ZWEIFEL 
I  see  it  is  —  a  box. 

MEDBERY 
I  see  it  was  —  a  make-up  box. 

ZWEIFEL 
A  what  ? 

MEDBERY 

A  box  for  holding  the  make-up  paints  of  an  ancient 
Roman  actor  —  one  of  those  players  who  used  this 
place  where  we  are  as  a  dressing-room  for  their  per 
formances  on  the  stage  yonder. 

ZWEIFEL 

As  usual,  my  young  friend,  jumping  at  conclusions 
and  landing  in  premises  !  Evidence,  sir ;  what's  your 
proof  ? 

MEDBERY 

Well,  let  me  sum  it  up  a  little.  We  have  now 
tunnelled  into  these  bowels  of  Vesuvius  for  several 
thousand  metres ;  last  month  we  finished  excavating 
the  interior  of  the  theatre  there  —  the  cavea,  the 
orchestra,  and  the  stage.  We  discovered  that  it  was 
built  originally  with  a  roof,  though  evidently  that  was 
destroyed  by  the  earthquake  of  '63,  previous  to  the 
final  eruption  that  covered  Herculaneum. 

ZWEIFEL 
I  am  in  no  need  of  a  Baedeker,  sir.     Your  proofs ! 


8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON" 

MEDBERY 

Pardon  me.  To-day  we  are  just  completing  the 
excavation  of  this  apartment  behind  the  stage-wall. 
We  have  made  here  many  pertinent  findings  —  this 
charred  mask,  for  instance ;  that  bronze  hand-mirror, 
now  crusted  over ;  those  spears,  evidently  for  stage  use 
as  properties ;  all  prove,  it  would  seem,  that  we  are 
standing  in  what  was  once  the  Players'  Quarters  of  this 
ancient  theatre. 

ZWEIFEL 

Perhaps.  [Pointing  right. ~]  That  doorway  also 
leads  to  more  such  rooms. 

MEDBERY 

Doubtless  for  the  mimes  and  pantomimists. 

ZWEIFEL 
[Shrugging.] 
"  Doubtless  "  —  what  a  word !     Well  ? 

MEDBERY 

Well,  Zweifel  [pointing  left~],  that  doorway,  which 
we  are  just  unearthing  there,  opens,  as  you  know, 
into  a  marble  passage,  leading  about  thirty  yards 
northeast  into  the  dining-room  of  a  palatial  villa. 
That  villa,  by  the  inscriptions  there,  was  once  the 
seaside  winter  residence  of  Varius,  the  dramatic  poet 
of  Rome,  in  the  reign  of  Augustus  Caesar. 

ZWEIFEL 

Please !  I  am  not  a  tourist.  What  has  all  this  to 
do  with  our  bronze  box  ? 


THE  PROLOGUE  9 

MEDBERY 

\_Pointing  to  the  lid.~\ 
Do  you  see  those  letters  raised  in  the  metal  ? 

ZWEIFEL 

[Reading."] 
CU.  A.  A. —  Well? 

MEDBERY 

C.  Ummidius  Actius  Anicetus. 

ZWEIFEL 

What,  the  actor  whose  name  is  scratched  on  the 
walls  in  Pompeii  ? 

MEDBERY 

Known  as  Actius.  He  was  popular  there,  as  you 
know.  But  he  acted  also  at  Herculaneum ;  he  made 
up  his  face  two  thousand  years  ago  here  in  this  room, 
with  paint  from  this  box. 

ZWEIFEL 
{With  irritation.'] 

Are  you  an  archaeologist,  or  an  actor  yourself? 
When  and  where  did  you  get  this  specific  knowledge  ? 

MEDBERY 

Last  night  [tapping  his  papyrus  scroll},  from  this. 
I  sat  up  till  daylight  deciphering  these  few  lines  of  it. 

ZWEIFEL 

Ah !  One  of  the  manuscripts  we  discovered  in 
the  library  of  the  villa. 


10  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON- 

MEDBERY 

It  is,  as  you  see,  charred  by  the  tufa,  and  ticklish 
to  unwind  without  breaking;  but  look  here  for  my 
pains.  May  I  translate  to  you  this  bit  I've  un 
wound  ? 

ZWEIFEL 

[Stolidly] 
I  should  be  interested. 

MEDBERY 

Listen,  then  [reading  from  the  scroll]  :  "  Here  is 
written  a  Tragedy  called  Sappho  and  Phaon,  conceived 
in  verse  by  Varius  the  poet.  It  was  first  performed 
on  the  eve  of  the  vernal  equinox,  in  the  ninth  consul 
ship  of  Caesar  Augustus  "  — 

ZWEIFEL 

B.C.  25. 

MEDBERY 
[  Continuing.] 

—  "  being  enacted  upon  the  stage  of  the  aforesaid 
Varius's  private  theatre  in  Herculaneum,  in  the 
presence  of  P.  Vergilius  Maro  and  Q.  Horatius 
Flaccus,  poets  " — 

DI   SELVA 

[  Who  has  approached  and  listened.] 
Virgil  and  Horace  ! 

MEDBERY 
[Continuing] 

— "  and  other  illustrious  guests,  his  friends,  from 
Rome  and  elsewhere.'' 


THE  PROLOGUE  II 

ZWEIFEL 

[Fidgeting.] 

Very  interesting ;  but  what  of  this  Actius  — 

MEDBERY 

So  much,  you  see,  is  written  by  the  scribe.  Now 
follows  a  note  by  a  different  hand  in  the  margin. 
[Reading.]  "  On  the  above  occasion,  the  parts  of 
Sappho  and  of  Phaon  were  enacted,  respectively,  by 
Naevoleia,  the  mime,  and  C.  Ummidius  Actius 
Anicetus,  the  popular  player,  who  consented  to  come 
from  Pompeii  to  act  with  her,  because  he  loved  the 
wench.  These  players,  in  their  disguises,  used  not 
masks  but  face-paint,  after  the  early  fashion  of  the 
renowned  Roscius ;  but  customary  masks  were  used 
in  the  pantomine  Hercules  and  the  Sphynx,  which 
was  enacted  in  the  Interludes  by  Sorex,  the  panto- 
mimist.  The  Tragedy  was  well  received  by  friendly 
auditors,  but  has  seldom  been  repeated  before  the 
multitude,  the  poet  having  taken  certain  liberties 
with  his  theme  and  verse  unfamiliar  to  this  time  and 
people.  The  present  manuscript  was  used  as  a 
prompter's  copy,  and  is  the  property  of  me, 
Heraclius,  Choregus  of  the  private  players  of  Varius, 
my  master." 

DI   SELVA 

[Seizing  Medbery*s  hand.] 
My  boy,  I  congratulate  you.     A  rare  find  ! 

MEDBERY 

I  think  so.     What  do  you  say,  Zweif el  ? 


12  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ZWEIFEL 

We  must  be  very  cautious,  young  man.  In  the 
first  place,  perhaps  your  translation  —  excuse  me  !  — 
may  be  flavoured  a  little  with  your  favourite  extract  — 
imagination. 

MEDBERY 

[Glancing  at  di  Selva.~\ 
Thank  you. 

ZWEIFEL 

In  the  second  place,  it  is  very  doubtful  if  we  should 
put  trust  in  an  authority  so  manifestly  at  variance 
with  the  accepted  facts  of  ancient  histrionic  art. 
How,  for  example,  if  your  player  Actius,  in  defiance 
of  tradition,  had  used  face-paint  from  this  box  —  how 
do  you  explain  the  existence  here  of  this  actor's 

mask  ? 

\Zweifel  points  to  the  charred  mask.] 

MEDBERY 
{Lifting  i/.] 

Why,  you  see  for  yourself;  this  doubtless  was 
Hercules  in  the  pantomime  here  referred  to. 

ZWEIFEL 
[Puckering  his  mouth.~\ 

"Doubtless!"  It  is  always  "doubtless"  —  except 
to  scientists.  In  the  next  place,  sir,  how  are  we  to 
account  for  the  lapse  of  time  between  the  date  of  this 
manuscript  and  the  eruption  of  Vesuvius  in  79? 


THE  PROLOGUE  13 

Furthermore,  as  to  this  illustrious  audience  of  yours, 
—  these  poets  —  these  Virgils  and  Horaces — I  must 
first  see  with  my  eyes  — 

\_He  reaches  for  the  manuscript;  but  Medbery,  retaining  it, 
raises  his  hand  mysteriously,  as  in  warning.^ 

MEDBERY 

Hush ! 

ZWEIFEL 

Sir? 

MEDBERY 

Hark,  Herr  Doctor  ! 

[A  few  of  the  workmen,  now  just  departing  with  their  torches 
—  leading  with  them  the  mule  and  the  drag-cart — leave 
the  scene  more  dim.  At  the  same  time,  a  faint  rumbling 
sound,  echoing  through  the  excavation,  grows  ever 
perceptibly  louder.] 

Do  you  not  hear  ? 

ZWEIFEL 
Hear  what  ? 

MEDBERY 

[  With  a  swift  smile  toward  di  Selva] 
Ah,  Zweif el,  we  must  be  cautious  —  very  cautious 
— in  these  excavations.     We  must  not  offend  this 
antique  world. 

ZWEIFEL 
Offend  what  ? 

MEDBERY 

We  must  not  forget  the  prerogatives  of  these 
ancient  citizens  in  their  Limbo ;  their  shades  flitted 
to  and  fro  in  the  dimness  forever ;  they  never  died. 


14  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ZWEIFEL 
What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ? 

MEDBERY 
Mean  ? 

[Tiptoeing  to  the  iron  grating  and  opening  if,  he  peers  into  the 
dark  theatre,  while  the  rumbling  sound  increases  to  a 
hollow,  murmurous  thunder.~\ 

Listen  again!  This  lost  world  under  the  lava  — 
'tis  not  like  ours  up  there  in  the  daylight.  Here  in 
the  dark,  these  Herculaneans  —  they  have  had  no  need 
of  eye-glasses,  nay,  for  twice  these  thousand  years. 
And  if  we  hunt  them  only  with  our  eyes  we  shall 
never  quarry  them.  Yet  if  we  doubt  them  they  will 
only  mock  us  the  more, —  like  that!  Herr  Doctor! 
do  you  hear  them  now  ?  They  have  heard  you  — 
those  departed  poets,  those  Horaces  and  Virgils,  those 
Maecenases  and  Pollios,  those  dead  illustrious  guests 
of  Varius !  Hark,  they  are  mocking  you,  Doctor ! 
They  are  mocking,  for  look  there  in  the  dark  :  they 
have  risen  in  their  seats  —  that  ancient  audience ; 
they  are  applauding  their  poet's  play  —  Sappho 
and  Phaon ;  they  are  rolling  their  applause  over 
your  head,  Herr  Zweifel,  in  thunder  and  in  ashes  — 
ashes  of  reprehension  ! 

ZWEIFEL 
\_Exasperated.~] 

Ashes  of  stratification  !  Very  true,  young  man. 
Your  nerves  are  deranged  by  insomnia.  That  rum 
bling  is  the  noise  of  carriage  wheels  on  the  road 


THE  PROLOGUE  15 

to  Resina  above  us  —  precisely  twenty-two  and  a 
half  metres  up  there  in  a  plumb  line  through  the 
tufa  bed  —  which  reminds  me  that  I  ordered  a  car 
riage  for  Naples  at  noon.  \Taking  out  his  watchJ\ 
Twelve  o'clock  —  just;  and  lunch-time.  —  Are  you 
coming,  gentlemen  ? 

DI  SELVA 

In  a  moment.  I'll  bring  the  men  along  for  their 
hour  of  sunshine. 

ZWEIFEL 
\To  Medbery.] 

By  the  way,  my  Romanticist,  I  am  going  to  the 
theatre  to-night  in  Naples  to  see  young  Salvini  in 
(Edipus.  Will  you  come  in  my  carriage  and  join 
me? 

MEDBERY 

Many  thanks,  Doctor,  but  you  see  I  am  just  now 
allured  by  an  older  player  of  tragedy  —  this  Actius, 
whose  rdle  was  Phaon. 

ZWEIFEL 

May  you  enjoy  him  —  in  papyrus,  sir.  I  advise 
you  to  join  his  profession. 

MEDBERY 
[Abstractedly^ 

His  profession  was  not  as  honoured  in  Herculaneum 
as  Salvini's  is  in  Naples. 


16  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ZWEIFEL 

[Lighting  a  cigar,  departs,  speaking  to  di  Selva  as  he  goes.  ~\ 
Don't  forget  to  lock  the  gates ;  we  must  keep  out 
the  thieves  and  Cook's  tourists. 
[Exit,  right.-] 

DI  SELVA 

[Locking  the  grated  iron  gate.~\ 

This  find  of  yours  will  arouse  great  interest, 
Medbery. 

MEDBERY 

I  believe  so,  but  it  is  all  thanks  to  you,  my  dear 
di  Selva  ;  thanks,  too,  to  your  King  of  Italy,  who  has 
had  the  greatness  of  initiative  to  gather  all  the 
modern  civilizations  of  the  world  harmoniously  to 
this  aspiring  task:  the  excavation  of  Herculaneum.  I 
remember  well,  some  years  ago,  —  it  was  about  1906  or 
'07  —  how  deeply  you  were  discouraged.  You  had  laid 
your  electrifying  plan  before  the  heads  of  the  Nations 
—  to  restore  together  their  common  heritage ;  they 
responded  generously,  but  soon  delay  and  complica 
tion  and  controversy  set  in  darkly.  The  people  were 
apathetic  —  blindfold.  Apathetic,  good  God  !  Here 
was  one  spot  —  one  only  in  all  the  soil  of  Europe  — 
where  the  Goth  had  never  pillaged,  the  Saracen  had 
never  burned,  the  insensate  Christian  centuries  had 
never  ravaged  —  the  art,  the  loveliness,  the  knowledge 
of  the  ancient  world.  And  this  one  spot  was  saved 
from  these  ravages  of  man  by  Nature  herself  —  saved 
by  fire,  by  the  cataclysm  of  Vesuvius.  Two  thou- 


THE  PROLOGUE  17 

sand  years  in  lava  and  oblivion !  and  you  said  to  the 
Nations,  Look !  —  Hellas,  Alexandria,  Rome,  the 
Augustan  Age,  they  are  not  burned,  not  crumbled ; 
their  marbles,  their  pillars,  their  papyri,  exist  now 
and  here,  they  are  yours  to-day  —  yours,  and  for 
what?  Why,  for  a  pick  and  a  shovel  and  a  penny 
and  a  heart  of  desire  from  every  man  of  you.  — 
Apathetic !  Why,  where  was  even  a  drunken  miner 
buried  alive  in  the  earth  by  a  crumbled  shaft,  but  his 
fellows  and  townsmen  would  dig  for  him — dig  till 
they  fell  from  the  foul  gases  a  mile  underground; 
and  will  not  man  —  all  the  nations  of  mankind  —  dig 
a  hundred  feet  to  restore  the  sun  to  Sophocles  and 
Sappho  and  Menander  ? 

Ah,  yes,  but  they  will,  —  they  have,  thank  God ! 

I   Man  has  heard  at  last  their  muffled  cry  through  the 

I  lava  —  their  prayer  to  live  again  !     And  we  are  here 

I  now,  because  of  you,  my  friend.     And  this  scroll  is 

I  but  one,  the  poor  first  of  a  thousand  others,  whose 

|  titles  you  and  I  have  seen,  and  whose  words  shall 

sound  among   the   nations   within   the   year.      And 

I  that  Apollo  of  Praxiteles,  which  we  dug  out  last  week, 

stands  sunlit  now  in  the  Naples    Museum,  because 

long  since  you  dreamed  of  him   in  darkness  —  the 

god  in  the  pumice  stone. 

DI  SELVA 

\To  Medbery,  who  has  taken  his  hands  and  pressed  them.~\ 
It  is  pleasant,  my  friend,  to  see  our  dreams  come 
true.      But  now  the  men  need  their  lunch.      Are 
you  coming  ? 


!g  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOtf 

MEDBERY 

No.     {Unwinds  the  papyrus  scroll.'}     I  will  stay 
here  [smiling]  —  and  lunch  with  Naevoleia. 

DI  SELVA 

Well,  we'll  return  in  an  hour. 

[Laughing  back  as  he  goes.] 
Good  appetite !     Addio  ! 

[Exit  at  right.  The  Labourers,  having  taken  up  their  lunch- 
pails,  follow  him,  resuming  their  singing,  which  grows 
fainter  and  dies  away  through  the  excavations^ 


THE  LABOURERS 

Di  bade  d'armonia 
E  T  aura  tua  ripiena, 

O  magica  Sirena 

Fedel,  f  edele  a  te  saro  ! 

Al  mio  pensier  piu  teneri 
Ritornano  gl'  instanti 

Le  gioje  e  le  memorie 
Di  miei  f elici  di  —  oh ! 

Addio,  mia  bella  Napoli, 

Addio,  addio  ! 
Addio  care  memorie 

Del  tempo  ah !  che  fuggl ! 


THE  PROLOGUE  19 

MEDBERY 

[Stands  alone  in  the  dimness  —  his  one  torch  still  gleaming 
by  the  table.'] 

I  wonder  was  she  pretty — "Naevoleia,  the  mime!" 
Yes,  yes,  I  can  see  her :  there  she  stood  and  looked 
— a  little  wickedly? — at  Actius  here  :  Actius  [glanc 
ing  at  his  scroll^  "  who-consented  to  come  from  Pompeii 
to  act  with  her,  because  he  loved  the  wench."  The 
wench,  puellulam,  dubious  word  for  a  lady !  But 
then  the  player  folk  were  outcasts  —  despicable  in  the 
world's  eye:  poor  vermin  !  And  still  they  loved,  like 
us  ;  laughed  —  like  us;  and  died  —  all  poor  vermin  ! 
[  Going  slowly  to  the  table,  lays  down  the  scroll,  and  gazes 
at  the  bronze  box.~\ 

Iteration — reiteration!  —  how  this  underworld  re 
echoes  the  word,  forever !  Exit ;  enter ;  exeunt 
omnes  —  forever. 

[Sitting  behind  the  table  and  the  broad  mirror,  crusted  with 
verdigris,  he  toys  with  the  ancient  brushes.~\ 

Actius,  you  sat  here;  your  eyes  looked  out  of  that 
mirror;  this  dust  was  your  paint.  You  dipped  your 
brush  there  —  so  fashion ;  touched  your  face  —  was  it 
so,  like  that  ?  No,  this  art  was  a  bit  strange  to  you. 
Sorex,  your  friend  in  the  next  room,  perhaps  he  could 
help  you.  Why  not  ?  "  Sorex !  "  you  called,  "  come 
help  me."  What  was  that  ?  The  girl-mimes  were 
laughing  ?  He  couldn't  have  heard  you  ?  Nay,  call 
him  louder,  then  ! 1 

[End  of  the  Prologue^ 

1Here,  without  pausing,  the  modern  actor,  who  plays  Medbery, 
continues  to  speak  the  words  of  the  Induction. 


THE    INDUCTION 

Animae  quales  neque  candidiores 
Terra  tulit,  neque  queis  me  sit  devinctior  alter. 

HORACE:  Sat.  V;  Bk.  I. 

Odi  profanum  vulgus  et  arceo. 

HORACE:  Ode\\  Bk.  III. 

Acti,  amor  populi,  cito  redi. 

Inscription  on  a  Pompeian  Wall. 


THE   INDUCTION 

[From  the  right  is  heard  soft  laughter.  ,] 

Sorex  !     Hai,  Sorex,  there  !     My  wick 
Is  low.     Fetch  here  another  light 
And  hurry  up.     I'm  late  ;  the  play 
Will  soon  begin.     You  louse,  I  say  ! 
Quit  pinching  of  the  girls  and  help 
Me  paint  my  face. 

[From  the  door  on  the  right  there,  enters  —  carrying  a  hand 
lamp  —  an  antique  figure,  whose  head  and  face  are 
concealed  by  a  grotesque  bearded  mask.  The  lamp,  illu 
mining  the  scene,  reveals  the  same  room  as  that  of  the 
Prologue,  now  perfectly  renovated,  devoid  of  tufa  or  sign 
of  ruin,  its  wall-frescoes  undimmed,  its  furnishings  freshly 
bright.  Various  belongings  of  actors  and  stage  proper 
ties  are  hung,  or  scattered  about.  Partly  concealed  be 
hind  the  stone  table  and  the  hand  mirror  (in  the  spot 
where  Medbery  before  was  sitting)  sits  a  man  in 
Roman  garb.  Him  the  entering  figure  in  the  mask 
addresses  with  a  kind  of  salaam.] 


THE  MASKED  ONE 
Great  Actius' 


Obedient  insect  ! 


24  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 

\JLooking  up,  reveals  a  smooth-shaven  face  partly  made  up.~\ 
What's  the  mask  ? 

THE  MASKED  ONE 

I'm  Hercules,  in  the  pantomime 
We  play  to-night. 

ACTIUS 

I  envy  you. 

By  Caesar,  this  new-fangled  art 
Of  painting  your  own  skin  —  'tis  one 
Too  fine  for  me.  —  Look  at  my  face. 
How  goes  it  now  ? 

THE   MASKED  ONE 
You're  exquisite. 

ACTIUS 

You're  impudent !  —  They  tell  me,  though, 
Roscius  himself  did  often  act 
Without  a  mask. 

THE  MASKED   ONE 

[Hovering  round  him,  begins  to  take  the  brushes  and  touch 
his  face.  ~\ 

Who  told  you  so  ? 


THE  INDUCTION  2$ 


ACTIUS 

Our  poet,  the  lord  Varius, 
Who  wrote  the  tragedy,  in  which 
I  play  this  rdle  of  Phaon.     Well, 
He  ought  to  know ;  the  emperor 
Paid  him  a  million  sesterces 
For  his  last  play.     I  would  I  had 
A  thousand  of  'em  ! 


Buy  with  'em  ? 


THE  MASKED  ONE 

What  would  you 


ACTIUS 

Buy  !     Hark,  Sorex ;  keep 
This  in  your  mask;  I'd  buy  back  what 
I've  lost  —  a  wench.     I  am  in  love. 

THE  MASKED  ONE 

[Titters.] 
In  love !  —  with  whom  ? 

ACTIUS 

With  Naevoleia, 

That  plays  the  part  of  Sappho  to 
My  Phaon.     'Tis  the  sweetest  wench, 
The  vilest  slut,  the  dearest  drab, 
The  loveliest  mercenary  minx 
In  Herculaneum.  —  Look  out ! 
What  are  you  doing  ? 


26 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAOtf 


THE  MASKED  ONE 
Lift  your  chin ; 
I'll  finish  you. 

[  Turning  him  to  the  mirror,  the  Masked  One  plies  the  paint 
and  brushes,  and  proceeds  —  without  his  perceiving  tt — 
to  make  up  his  face  in  the  most  grotesque  lines  and 
colours^ 

ACTIUS 
[Lifting  from  the  table  some  tiny  figures  of  bronze."} 

Now  swear  me,  up 
And  down,  and  blue  and  black,  upon 
These  Lares  and  Penates,  not 
To  whisper  what  I  say  to  her 
Or  any  breathing  soul. 

THE  MASKED  ONE 
[Touching  the  bronze  figures."} 
'Tis  sworn ! 


ACTIUS 

Friend  Sorex,  Naevoleia  has 
Deceived  me.     Ten  denarii 
Per  day  she  has  received  from  me 
This  seven  months  and  been  content, 
And  hung  upon  my  eyes  with  love, 
And  I  have  worshipped  her.     By  Styx ! 
Now  comes  along  this  Myrmillo, 
The  gladiator — he  that  made 
Such  big  noise  in  the  amphitheatre 
Killing  your  Pugnax  —  well,  he  offers 


THE  INDUCTION  27 

A  twenty  to  my  ten,  and  she 

Takes  him,  and  fools  me.  —  Jove !     She  thinks 

I  do  not  know  it.     But  to-day 

I  wrote  a  note,  signed  Myrmillo, 

Asking  a  tryst;  and,  as  you  know, 

She  sent  an  answer,  by  that  note 

Which  you  did  bring  to  me  instead 

Of  Myrmillo.     The  answer  said 

She'd  come  to-night.  —  Ha !  have  a  care, 

You  pinched  me  !  —  I  will  show  the  wench 

She  shall  not  make  me  ludicrous 

To  my  own  face. 

THE  MASKED  ONE 

[  Whirling  him  round,  thrusts  his  painted  face  against  the 
mirror."} 

Look  at  it,  then  ! 

[Running  toward  the  door,  right,  the  Masked  One  is  pursued 
by  Actius,  who  catches  up  a  lyre  that  lies  near.] 

ACTIUS 

[Striking  with  //.] 
You  dog  of  Hades  — 

[The  other,  removing  the  mask  of  Hercules,  turns  and  re 
veals  to  Actius  the  face  of  a  girl  laughing  at  him.] 

Naevoleia ! 

N^EVOLEIA 
Well,  love,  how  do  you  like  yourself  ? 


2g  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 

[Rubbing  the  paint  off  with  his  garment.'] 
I  swear — 

N^VOLEIA 

Nay,  Acti,  keep  your  face  ; 
Don't  let  it  fall ;  it  makes  a  lovely 
Fool. 

ACTIUS 

But  you  changed  your  voice  ! 

N^EVOLEIA 

Let's  hope 

I  am  an  artist,  though  I  be 
A  mercenary  slut. 

ACTIUS 
Sweet  love, 
You  have  not  heard  yet  — 

N^EVOLEIA 

How  you  forged 
A  note,  signed  Myrmillo ! 

ACTIUS 

But  you 
Replied  to  it. 

N^VOLEIA 

O  hypocrite ! 

ACTIUS 
Nay,  Sorex  brought  your  answer. 


THE  INDUCTION'  2g 

N^IVOLEIA 

Worse 

Than  worst !  —  To  steal  a  note,  and  then 
Upbraid  me  for  your  robbery ! 

ACTIUS 
But  Naevoleia  — 

N^EVOLEIA 

[Raging,  thrusts  the  mask  of  Hercules  into  the  hands  of 
Actius  (now  bewildered) .] 

Sorex !      Sorex ! 
[Enter,  right,  SOREX,  carrying  several  masks  of  comedy. 

Ncevoteia  rushes  to  Mm.] 
Take  me  away  from  him. 

SOREX 

What's  up? 
I'm  hunting  for  my  mask. 

N^VOLEIA 
[Pointing  at  Actius.~\ 

'Tis  there. 

[Crying  on  Sorex 's  shoulder. ,] 
O  save  me  from  his  slander ! 

SOREX 

Wench, 

That's  right,  wench ;  weep  thy  heart  on  me. 
I'd  rather  feel  thy  tears  than  take 
A  shower  in  the  tepidarium. 


30  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

N^EVOLEIA 

[Turning  upon  Actius.~\ 
Reviler !  forger  !  —  Tell  him,  darling 
Sorex,  what  'tis  to  be  a  loyal 
Lover ! 

SOREX 

Nay,  he's  no  gentleman 
That  is  no  lover.     Look  at  me  : 
In  all  Pompeii,  where  I  was  born, 
Lives  not  another  lover,  with 
A  score  like  mine  for  loyalty. 
Offhand,  'twixt  my  two  thumbs,  I'll  name  ye 
A  dozen  wenches,  who  will  be 
My  witnesses,  how  I  to  each 
Have  been  a  gentleman  —  that  is, 
Within  the  meaning  of  the  word. 
There's  Januaria,  Vitalis, 
Doris,  Lalage,  Damalis, 
Amaryllis,  Florentina, 
Hecla,  Romula,  Quieta  — 

ACTIUS 

[Stopping  his  mouth  with  his  hand.] 
Shut  up  thy  brothel,  fool ! 

SOREX 

[Escaping,  squares  at  him.] 
By  Venus, 

Come  call  me  fool  in  the  forum ! 

[Navoleia,  drawing  back,  points  to  the  door,  left,  —  the  same 
which  in  the  Prologue  was  partly  concealed  and  blocked 
by  tufa,  —  where  HERACLIUS  has  just  entered.] 


THE  INDUCTION  31 

N^VOLEIA 

Hush! 

HERACLIUS 

[Raising  his  staff  toward  them.'] 
Players ! 

SOREX 

[Ducking  behind  Navoleia.] 
Lay  low !     Here's  the  Choregus. 

HERACLIUS 

[Approaches,  threatening  to  strike.'] 
Less  noise  !  — Your  master  Varius 
Has  heard  you  in  the  villa.     He 
Is  risen  from  the  dining  couch, 
And  now  is  bringing  here  his  guests 
To  show  them  through  his  theatre. 

ACTIUS 

And  has  our  master  guests  ? 

HERACLIUS 

Tis  well 

For  you  to  know  it.     Play  your  best 
To-night.     He  hath  from  Rome  invited 
Horatius,  the  satirist, 
And  from  Neapolis  another 
Poet,  Virgilius  —  both  friends 
Of  his  and  Caesar's.     They  are  come 
To  criticise  his  play,  this  first 


32  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOtf 

Performance.     In  the  audience 

There  will  be  other  guests  —  the  great 

Maecenas,  and  the  tragicist 

Lord  Pollio,  and  many  friends 

From  Herculaneum,  Pompeii, 

And  Baias.  —  Look  you  know  your  lines. 

\_Handing  Actius  a  scroll — •  the  same  as  that  in  the  Pro 
logue.] 

Here  is  the  prompter's  manuscript ; 
Glance  over  it  again. 

[To  Sorex,  indicating  the  masks  which  N&voleia  is  amusing 
herself  by  trying  on.~\ 

These  masks 
Are  ready  for  the  pantomime  ? 

SOREX 

[Showing  them  severally^ 

I  wear  these  two,  my  master.     This 

Is  Hercules  Dejected,  when 

I  sit  a-spinning  lamb's  wool ;  that 

Is  Hercules  Triumphant,  where 

I  go  to  woo  the  Sphinx  ;  this  coy 

Maiden  is  Omphale,  and  this 

Her  man-slave,  Servus  ;  this  one  here 

Is  old  Silenus  —  would  I  had 

A  face  like  that ! 

HERACLIUS 

Where  are  the  fauns  ? 
All  dressed? 


THE  INDUCTION  33 

SOREX 
[  Whistles^ 

The  mimes  are  here,  sir. 
"As  he  whistles  a  second  time,  there  storm  in  from  the  right 
a  troupe  of  mimes,  garbed  as  fauns,  in  various  stages 
of  dress  and  make-up.     Heraclius  checks  them.~\ 

HERACLIUS 

Back! 
Not  now  !     Go  back. 

The  mimes,  shoving  and  pulling  one  another  in  laughter, 
return  through  the  door,  which  closes  after  them.  At 
the  same  moment  appear,  in  the  left  doorway, 
VARIUS,  HORACE,  and  VIRGIL.  Seeing  these,  Heraclius 
signs  to  Actius,  N&voleia,  and  Sorex  to  draw  back 
—  up  scene,  right.  ] 

Your  masters !     Quiet ! 

^Himself  stepping  slightly  forward,  Heraclius  bows  low,  and 
stands  waiting  deferentially.  Horace  enters,  talking 
volubly.  Both  he  and  Varius,  in  their  mutual  chaffing, 
address  their  remarks  to  Virgil,  who  stands  absent- 
mindedly  between  theml\ 

HORACE 

[Saluting  Varius  with  his  gesture.] 
Hail  to  mine  host  Preceptor  of 
Gastronomy  !  —  I  say,  my  Virgil, 
Let  no  man  lightly  claim  the  art 
Of  giving  banquets,  till  he  hath 
Deduced  the  subtle  theory 
Of  tastes. 


34  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

VARIUS 
\_Laiighing.~] 
Will  nothing  stop  him  ? 

HORACE 

Lo! 

With  waxing  moons  the  slippery  shellfish 
Waxes,  but  not  in  every  sea 
Alike.     Peloris  from  the  Lake 
Lucrine  is  far  more  exquisite 
Than  Baian  murex ;  at  Circeii 
Ripens  the  lush,  lascivious  oyster, 
The  urchin  at  Misenum ;  but 
At  proud  Tarentum  breeds  the  ample 
Voluptuous  scallop. 

VARIUS 

By  the  star 
Of  Julius  !     Must  we  stand  this  ? 

HORACE 

If 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky  you  set 
Your  Massic  wine,  the  thickish  motes 
Will  vanish  on  the  breeze  of  night 
And  with  them  every  heady  fume, 
But  if  'tis  strained  through  linen  cloth, 
Its  flavour's  lost  forever !  —  He 
Who  mixes  Surrentine  with  dregs 
Of  casks  Falernian,  may  clear 
The  sediment  with  pigeon's  eggs, 
Whose  sticky  yolks,  being  heavier, 


THE  INDUCTION  35 

Fall  to  the  bottom.     O  forget  not 

Your  appetizers  —  Afric  snails 

And  roasted  shrimps  with  lettuce  —  shrimps 

That  swim  upon  the  stomach  — 

VARIUS 

This, 

Mind  you,  is  Horace  —  frugal  Horace, 
Who  boasts  he  only  chews  a  cud 
Of  sorrel  on  his  Sabine  farm. 

HORACE 

[Smiling,  nudges  Varius^\ 
He  has  not  heard  us. 

[Speaking  suddenly  and  loud.~\ 
Virgil ! 

VIRGIL 
[Starting.'} 

Ah? 

HORACE 
What's  that  you  said  ? 

VIRGIL 
[Speaks  slowly  and  with  a  slight  stutterl\ 

I  said  —  Did  I 
Say  anything  ?     I  think  the  view 
Behind  your  villa,  Varius, 
Is  beautiful :  Vesuvius 
Raising  its  quiet  dome  of  green 
Above  us  in  the  blue  ;  below  us 
The  red  roofs  of  Pompeii,  and 
The  sea  —  a  blazing  shield. 


36  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOtf 

HORACE 

Ye  Muses ! 

Send  me  a  lung  complaint  and  lack 

Of  appetite,  so  I  may  live 

On  scenery  instead  of  shrimps, 

Like  this  your  virgin,  Virgil ! 

[Laughing,  he  embraces   Virgil,  while     Varius,    who   has 

called  Heraclius  to  him  and  spoken  aside,  now  turns  to 

Horace.] 

VARIUS 

If 

You'll  deign  to  turn  your  thoughts  from  dinner 
Upon  my  tragedy,  I'd  like 
Your  judgments  on  these  rascals  here 
In  a  brief  scene,  before  the  play 
Begins. 

HORACE 
What  is  the  scene  ? 

VARIUS 

The  one 

I  spoke  to  you  about  at  dinner, 
In  the  first  act,  where  Sappho  helps 
Phaon  to  mend  his  net. 

HORACE 

This  is 
Your  Phaon  ? 

VARIUS 

This  is  Actius, 
The  player. 


THE  INDUCTION  37 

HORACE 
{As  N&voleia  approaches  with  Actius.] 

And  your  Sappho  —  what, 
A  woman  ? 

VARIUS 

Yes,  she  was  a  mime, 

But  showed  such  gifts  as  made  me  grant  her 
This  trial.  —  Nay,  I  told  you  this 
Would  be  a  play  with  innovations !  — 
Shall  they  begin  ? 

HORACE 
Surely. 

VIRGIL 

I  pray  you. 
[  On  a  bronze  bench,  left,  Horace  and  Virgil  seat  themselves.] 

VARIUS 

Imagine,  then,  a  net  suspended 
Here,  and  the  temple  yonder. 

\Takingfrom  Actius  the  scroll  of  papyrus  I\ 

Now; 

The  cue  is  :    "I  will  mend  it."  —  "  You !  " 
\Varius  sits  between  the  two  poets,  there  watching  with  them 
the  two  players,  who  —  changing  now  their  mien  and 
expression  —  assume  their  rdles  of  Sappho  and  Phaonl\ 

N^VOLEIA 
[As  Sappho^ 
To  mend  is  woman »s  task. 


38  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOW 

ACTIUS 
[As  Phaon.] 

Are  you  a  woman  ? 

N^EVOLEIA 

Perhaps  I  am  what  women  yearn  to  be  — 
Man. 

ACTIUS 

Did  you  grow  here  in  the  temple  ? 

NvEVOLEIA 

Where 

I  grew,  or  in  what  garden  by  the  spray 
Or  wave-lit  cave  my  spirit's  seed  was  sown, 
Surely,  'tis  thou  who  knowest:  for  methinks 
Thou  also  grewest  there. 

ACTIUS 

It  may  be  so. 

NyEVOLEIA 

Stood  we  not  then  as  now  ?  and  raised  as  now 
The  net  between  us  ? 

ACTIUS 
[Strangely.] 

Somewhat  I  remember. 

NvEVOLEIA 

And  even  as  now  thine  eyes  shone  through  the  meshes 
And  mine  in  thine :  was  it  not  always  so  ? 


THE  INDUCTION  39 

ACTIUS 
[Relapsing  to  indifference,  turns  as  to  tie  the  strands  of  the 

imaginary  net.~\ 
'Tis  broken. 

N^VOLEIA 

Ah,  but  shall  be  mended ;  I 
Will  tie  the  fibres. 

HORACE 
[Interrupting^ 

One  moment :  Fellow,  in  what  parts 
Hast  thou  been  wont  to  act  ? 

ACTIUS 

In  all 
That  meet  the  people's  favour. 

HORACE 
[  With  a  wry  face.] 

Ha! 
I  feared  as  much  ;  what  parts,  for  instance  ? 

ACTIUS 

In  comedy  I've  played  Dossenus 
The  knave,  Bucco  the  bumpkin,  Maccus 
The  clown,  and  Pappus,  the  old  dotard. 
In  tragedy,  Orestes,  Ajax, 
Achilles,  Agamemnon,  Creon, 
And  CEdipus ;  besides,  in  plays 
By  Livius  Andronicus,  some 
Odd  score  of  parts  — 


40  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON- 

HORACE 

Too  versatile 

To  please  the  Muse  ;  for  Tragedy, 
Though  she  will  mix  with  grinning  satyrs, 
Still  does  so  with  such  sweet  aloofness 
As  when  an  honest  matron  dances 
To  keep  a  festival.     Play  not 
To  please  your  people,  but  your  poet. 

VARIUS 
[Smiling] 

Nay,  Horace !     If  you'll  let  him  please 
Me,  let  him  please  the  people. 

HORACE 

Fie 
Upon  you!     Let  us  watch  'em  farther. 

N^VOLEIA 

\To  Actius,  resuming  her  impersonation.] 
You  are  a  boatman. 

ACTIUS 

Yes. 

N^EVOLEIA 

Go  you  alone  upon  the  water  ? 

ACTIUS 

Yes. 

N.EVOLEIA 

When  you  are  all  alone,  are  you  afraid  ? 


THE  INDUCTION  41 

ACTIUS 
No. 

N^VOLEIA 

Put  you  ever  far  to  sea  ? 

ACTIUS 

Sometimes. 

N^VOLEIA 

And  have  you  never  rowed  to  the  mainland  ? 

ACTIUS 

Oft 

N^VOLEIA 

By  tempest  ? 

ACTIUS 

Once. 

N^VOLEIA 

A  storm  at  twilight  ? 

ACTIUS 

Once. 

N^VOLEIA 

Oh,  is  it  true,  then,  what  the  sea-wives  tell  ? 
Was  she  a  goddess  ? 

ACTIUS 

Long  ago  :  'twas  long 
Ago  !     I  was  a  boy,  and  that's  all  dark. 


And  have  you  never  seen  her  since  she  sprang 
Burning,  upon  the  sands  of  Lydia  ? 


42  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 

[Momentarily  ardentl\ 
Sometimes  methought  —  I  know  not. 


N^VOLEIA 

Still  you  dreamed 
You  saw. 

ACTIUS 

How  knowest  thou  ? 


N^VOLEIA 

Tell  me  your  dreams. 

ACTIUS 

[Rapt.] 

Oft  ere  the  day,  while  all  the  slaves  are  sleeping, 
I  and  my  boat  put  out  on  the  black  water  ; 
Under  us  there  and  over  us  the  stars  sing 

Songs  of  that  silence. 
Soon  then  the  sullen,  brazen-horned  oxen 
Rise  in  the  east,  and  slowly  with  their  wind  ploughs 
Break  in  the  acres  of  the  broad  ^Egean 

Furrows  of  fire. 

So,  many  a  time  there,  as  I  leaned  to  watch  them 
Yoked  in  their  glory,  sudden  'gainst  the  sunrise 
Seemed  that  there  stood  a  maiden  —  a  bright  shadow. 

N^VOLEIA 
Ah  !     You  beheld  her  I 


THE  INDUCTION  43 

HORACE 

[Applauding  with  VirgiQ 
Well  done  and  aptly  !     By  Apollo, 
My  Varius,  is  not  this  strange 
That  player-  vermin  such  as  these, 
Who  live  in  tavern-holes  and  swill 
Sour  wine  and  soup  of  peas,  and  sit 
Carousing  with  their  harlots,  should 
Thus  animate  your  poetry 
With  power  and  truth  ? 

ACTIUS 
[Stepping  forward.  ] 

Is  that  so  strange  ? 

HORACE 

[Turns  to  the  others  with  a  look  of  amused  surprise^ 
What's  this? 

ACTIUS 

Is  it  permitted,  masters, 
For  vermin  to  discourse  ? 

HORACE 
[Touching  his  forehead  meaningly,  glances  with  inquiry  at 


A  crack  ? 

VARIUS 

[Nodding,  amused,  at  Horace,  speaks  genially  to  Actius^\ 
Speak,  rascal,  what  you  will. 


44  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 

My  lord 

Horatius  has  deemed  it  strange 

That  we,  who  live  in  tavern-holes 

And  swill  sour  wine,  should  still  be  artists, 

With  souls  to  imbue  a  poet's  lines 

With  animate  power.     For  this  he  has 

Been  gracious  to  applaud  us,  as 

Good  players.     I  would  ask  of  him, 

What  is  a  player  ?     Is  he  not 

A  man  who  imitates  his  kind, 

That  is  —  mankind  ?     But  what,  my  masters, 

Is  man  ? 

HORACE 

By  Socrates  !     The  rogue 
Hath  grazed  in  Athens,  and  been  groomed 
By  schoolmasters. 

ACTIUS 

Man  —  is  not  he 
An  animal  who  imitates 
Also  his  kind  ?     Why,  then,  a  player 
Is  man  epitomized,  an  ape 
Of  glorious  hypocrisy, 
Magnificent,  because  alone 
He  shows  the  counterfeit  his  image, 
The  hypocrite  —  himself.     No  schism 
Exists,  my  lord,  between  yourself 
And  me  but  this  :  you  are  by  nature, 
Skilless,  what  I  am  by  vocation, 
More  perfected.  —  You  patch,  you  bungle, 


THE  INDUCTION-  45 

Where  I  excel.     Horatius  is 
Your  part  upon  life's  play-bill,  but 
You  blur  with  that,  and  imitate, 
Most  pitifully,  twenty  others 
All  in  an  hour.  —  My  part  to-night 
Is  Phaon,  whom  my  master  there 
Conceived  in  nubibus ;  'tis  true 
I  too  may  botch  and  fail  to  draw 
The  finer  shades,  but  when  I  do, 
My  art's  at  fault,  not  I ;  my  aim 
Is  single  and  declared  :  to  be 
Phaon  to-night,  to-morrow  Maccus 
The  clown,  the  next  day  CEdipus 
The  tyrant,  but  while  each  shall  last, 
To  be  at  least  an  honest  player 
And  live  the  part  I  play.  —  I  beg 
A  moment  still !     You  spoke  just  now 
Of  Athens  and  of  schoolmasters, 
The  name  of  Socrates  you  made 
An  oath,  as  he  had  been  a  god 
Like  Caesar,  yet  you  —  you  that  hold 
[n  reverence  these  philosophers, 
See  how  you  scorn  and  satirize 
Their  temple  of  philosophy  — 
The  Theatre. 

HORACE 

Scorn! 

ACTIUS 

Not  your  plays, 
O  poets  !     No,  but  us,  that  are 


46  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOW 

Your  instruments  of  flesh  and  blood, 

Us  players,  in  whose  living  eyes 

And  limbs  your  wan  scripts  flush  to  life 

And  flash  their  passionate  response 

From  the  eyes  of  your  breathing  audience.  — 

My  lord  Horatius,  let  me 

Reverse  your  question  :  Is  not  this 

Strange  —  yea,  too  strange  !  —  that  we  who  thus 

Give  radiant  reality 

To  your  pale  visions,  are  ourselves 

Despised,  and  by  your  cult  cast  off 

In  shame,  to  share  our  dogs  of  wine 

With  harlots,  in  a  tavern-hole  ? 

HORACE 

[After  a  brief  silence,  rising."] 
Player,  we  have  deserved  this,  yet 
I'll  hope  you  still  may  deem  me  more 
A  Roman  than  I  seemed.     My  father 
Was  born  a  slave  and  earned  his  oats 
At  public  auctions ; 

[Indicating   Virgil."] 

his  kept  bees 

In  Mantua.     I  trust  we  all 
Are  Roman  gentlemen  —  all  four. 
[Horace,    Virgil,  and   Varius,  in  turn,  take  Actius*  hand, 
and  press  it  cordially."] 

VIRGIL 

The  cocks  will  cackle  at  the  swan 
Until  they  see  him  swim  —  good  friend. 


THE  INDUCTION'  47 

ACTIUS 

\_Deeply  moved.~\ 

My  masters,  you  have  lifted  up 
My  heart  and  stopped  my  tongue. 

VARIUS 
\_As  music  sounds  from  within .] 

The  flutes ! 

Our  friends  are  gathering  in  front 
To  see  the  play.     Maecenas  there 
'Waits  us  with  Pollio.     Come,  lads, 
And  lacerate  my  tragedy. 

HORACE 

"  Sappho  and  Phaon !  "     You  have  been 
Bold  in  your  subject  —  to  portray 
The  eternal  maiden  and  her  lover. 

VARIUS 

The  subject  made  me  bold,  to  dare 
What  Sappho  did  herself  aspire  — 
To  make  her  love  live  on,  and  be 
Perpetual  as  Spring,  that  comes 
Newly  to  generations  new. 

[Lifting,  then  laying  the  papyrus  scroll  on  the  table."] 
And  if  to-night  these  thoughts  of  mine, 
Sculptured  alive  in  Actius 
And  Naevoleia  here,  shall  move 
To  pity  spirits  such  as  yours  — 
There's  my  ambition  and  reward. 


48  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

VIRGIL 

[Opening  a  door — up,  left — which  discloses  the  back  of  a 
set  scene  on  the  stage  of  Varius1  theatre.~\ 

Is  this  the  way  ? 

VARIUS 

No ;  that  door's  blocked 
By  scenery. 
[  Opening,  at  centre,  another  door  which  discloses  a  wide  dark 

space  —  dimly  lit.'] 
This  one  will  lead  us 
Through  to  the  orchestra,  across 

The  stage. 

VIRGIL 

[Closing  his  door.~] 
Who  did  your  scenery  ? 

HORACE 


X  X  \.s  XVTYV>  J-< 

Our  shepherd  of  the  Eclogues  still 
Pipes  of  the  scenery ! 


VARIUS 
'Twas  painted 

For  me  by  Auceps,  a  disciple 
Of  Tadius,  the  master.     He 
Has  pictured  the  ^Egean  shore 
At  Lesbos  with  a  brush  not  dipped, 
Methinks,  in  common  paint-pots. 

[  Waving  Horace  and  Virgil  to  precede  him.] 

Pray! 
[Turning  to  the  Choregus.~\ 

Look  that  your  pantomimists  be 
Masked  for  the  Interludes. 


THE  INDUCTION  49 

HORACE 
[Pausing  in  his  departure,  raises  both  hands  in  deprecation^ 

Dumb  play 

Between  the  acts  of  tragedy  ?  — 
Worse  than  a  curtain-show  at  Rome 

VARIUS 
\Smiling,  waves  him  /«.] 

Wait  till  you  see  before  you  scoff. 
This  way. 

[  The  door  closes.  Actius,  still  moved  by  his  talk  with  the 
poets,  having  gone  to  the  table,  sits  and  begins  to  put  on 
the  light  beard  of  Phaon,  not  noticing  Sorex  and  N&- 
voleia,  whom  the  Choregus,  going  out,  has  left  behind 
him  in  the  upper  right  corner.  Ntzvoleia  now,  tiptoe 
ing  behind  Actius,  kisses  him  suddenly  and  runs  away, 
right.  Starting  up,  Actius  looks  after  her  passionately  .~\ 

ACTIUS 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me,  witch  ? 

N^VOLEIA 

[Throwing  him  kisses.  ~\ 
Forever  and  aye. 

[Turning  to  Sorex,  snuggles  close  to  him,  and,  glancing  slyly 
back  at  Actius  whispers,  aside.~\ 

Sweet  Hercules, 
Where  is  the  house  of  Myrmillo  ? 


50  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SOREX 

[  Goes  with  Ncevoleia,  giggling  as  she  winks  at  him."} 
What,  wench  ?   Nay,  wench  !  —  Ho,  wench  of  Venus  ! 

[Exeunt.  Actius  sits  again  moodily  and  swiftly  completes 
the  make-up  of  his  beard,  as  the  laughter  of  players  and 
girl  mimes  resounds  from  the  room  which  Nczvoleia 
and  Sorex  have  just  entered.  Rising  then  with  the 
manuscript,  he  lifts,  from  among  other  stage-properties 
near  him,  a  spear  and,  holding  it  in  one  hand,  walks 
twice  back  and  forth,  conning  the  manuscript  of  the 
play  held  in  his  other  hand^\ 

ACTIUS 

\To  himself.'} 
That  passage  in  the  second  act ! 

\_The  sounds  of  laughter  are  renewed,  and  Ncevoleia's  voice 
is  heard  above  the  others ;  but  Actius  does  not  now 
notice  the  sounds.  Pausing  in  his  motion,  he  lays  down 
the  spear  and  murmurs  his  part  of  Phaon  aloud,  gradu 
ally  growing  articulate^ 

Nevermore 

Shall  you  be  sovereign  of  your  maiden  will 
Or  single  in  your  fate.     Not  here  with  priest 
And  song,  but  with  a  spear,  you  have  betrothed  me. 

[Raising    the  weapon  above  him,  he  smiles  up  at  it  —  as 
the  voice  of  Nczvoleia,  outside,  sings  to  Sorex 's  laughter  J\ 

N^EVOLEIA 
Januaria,  Vitalis, 
Doris,  Lalage,  Damalis  — 


THE  INDUCTION"  5* 

ACTIUS 
{Oblivious} 

0  thou,  my  spear,  thou  singest  in  my  hand. 

Thou  art  my  power  and  manhood.    Face  to  face 

Thou  pittest  me  in  combat  with  the  gods, 

And  raising  thee,  my  mind  is  raised  up 

Confronting  heaven,  till  from  those  clouds  of  fire 

This  slavish  world  grows  dim,  and  all  that  sways  it  — 

The  tyrant's  hate,  the  galley-master's  goad, 

The  sordid  trader's  dreams  of  avarice  — 

Dwindle  to  impotence.     Thine  is  the  war 

Which  shall  not  end  with  time  —  war  with  those  gods 

Which  made  men's  misery. 

THE  VOICE  OF  N^VOLEIA 
{Singing.} 

Amaryllis,  Florentina, 
Hecla,  Romula,  Quieta  — 

{Actius  —  his  spirit  completely  lost  and  merged  in  the  part 
of  Phaon  —  slowly  lowers  his  spear  as,  to  the  laughtet 
of  the  players  within,  the  curtain  falls} 

{End  of  the  Induction.} 


THE   PRELUDE 


tu,  quid  ego  et  populus  mecum  desideret,  audi. 
si  plausoris  eges  aulaea  manentis  et  usque 
sessuri,  donee  cantor  *  vos  plaudite '  clicat, 
aetatis  cuiusque  notandi  sunt  tibi  mores, 
mobilibusque  decor  naturis  dandus  et  annis. 

—  HORACE  :  De  Arte  Poctica. 


sic  priscae  motumque  et  luxuriem  addidit  arti 
tibicen  traxitque  vagus  per  pulpita  vestem. 


—  Idem. 


THE   PRELUDE 

To  the  music  of  flutes  within,  the  modern  curtain 
rises,  disclosing  to  the  spectator's  view  the  interior  of 
Varius'  private  theatre  in  Herculaneum  —  namely, 
that  segment  of  it  which  includes  the  ancient  stage, 
orchestra  space  [the  outer  curve  of  which  coincides 
with  the  curve  of  the  modern  footlights],  and  the  first 
four  tiers  of  the  cavea,  or  auditorium,  —  the  said  tiers 
being  actually  represented,  on  either  side,  only  as  far  as 
the  marble  coping  of  a  first  aisle,  which  runs  approxi 
mately  parallel  to  the  modern  footlights  and  disap 
pears  behind  the  [modern]  '  wings '  :  on  either  side. 

On  the  left  side,  the  tiers  of  this  auditorium  are 
provided  with  separate,  sculptured  seats  of  marble ; 
on  the  right,  however,  the  first  tier  consists  of  a 
curved  marble  bench,2  the  curve  of  which  defines 
the  edge  of  the  orchestra  space  on  that  side. 

Thus  the  modern  audience  is  seated,  as  it  were, 
within  the  omitted  [but  imagined]  segment  of 
Varius'  Theatre,  facing  —  together  with  the  Hercu- 
lanean  audience  —  the  ancient  stage. 

1  These  [modern]  'wings'  depict,  or  suggest  by  the  customary  per 
spective  of  stage  scenery,  the  interior  constructive  outlines  of  Varius' 
Theatre. 

2  This  bench  —  since  no  Herculanean  spectators  are  ever  visible 
on  the  right  side  —  is,  later,  used  by  the  characters  in  the  Tragedy. 

55 


56  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

This  ancient  stage  consists  of  a  shallow  platform, 
raised  about  two  feet  above  the  orchestra  space,  and 
connected  therewith  by  broad,  wide  steps  of  stone. 

[At  left  and  at  right,  in  front  of  the  stage,  is  an 
exit  aisle.] 

At  the  rise  of  the  modern  curtain,  however,  the 
ancient  stage  itself  is  not  visible,  being  shut  from 
view  by  the  Herculaneum  curtain.1 

The  Herculaneum  curtain  itself  is  painted  to 
represent  the  street  exterior  of  a  house,  in  the  Pom- 
peian  style.  In  the  centre,  set  in  a  lintel  frame,  is 
depicted  a  wide,  squat  door,  the  stage  platform  form 
ing  its  sill,  to  which  the  broad  stone  steps  [aforesaid] 
lead  up  from  the  orchestra  space. 

Above  the  squat  doorway  is  a  window  casement. 
Both  door  and  window  are  not  merely  painted  on  the 
curtain,  but  are  devised  to  open  and  close  practically 
when  needed.2 

The  top  of  the  curtain  is  designed  as  an  over  jutting 
tiled  roof. 

Curtain  and  theatre  are  tinted  and  adorned  with 

1  This,  being  constructed  on  the  principle  of  all    Roman  theatre 
curtains,   is  not  let  down  from  above,  but,  fastened  to  a  top  rod,  is 
drawn  upward  [by  pulleys  behind  the  scenes]  through  a  narrow  slit  in 
the  floor  of  the  stage  platform,  close  to  its  outer  edge.     Through  this 
slit  it  stretches  its  expanse  upward  from  the  stage's  edge  to  a  height  at 
which  the  curtain's  top  is  just  visible,  and  extends  laterally,  on  the  right, 
to  a  bronze  caryatid  [which  forms  the  proscenium  frame  of  the  ancient 
stage  on  that  side],  and  on  the  left  disappears  behind  the  [modern] 
'wings.' 

2  In  such  case,  when  the  door  is  open,  a  temporary  back  set-piece 
within  —  painted  to   represent  a   hallway  —  conceals  from  view  the 
Herculaneum  stage  itself,  with  its  [Greek  scene]  setting  of  the  Tragedy. 


THE  PRELUDE  $? 

the  pseudo-Orient  richness  of  the  early  Augustan 
age. 

In  the  centre  of  the  orchestra  space,  raised  one 
step  above  its  level,  stands  a  low  marble  altar,  sculp 
tured  with  emblems  of  the  sea.  Upon  this  stands 
fixed  a  slim  tripod  of  bronze. 

Before  this  curtain,  then,  when  the  scene  opens, 
are  discovered  groups  of  Herculanean  citizens  and 
guests  of  Varius,  in  festal  Roman  garments. 
Amongst  them  are  Pollio  and  Maecenas,  the  latter 
magnificently  yet  delicately  wreathed  and  garbed. 

To  the  piping  of  the  two  Flutists  [who  stand,  at  left 
and  right,  at  the  edge  of  the  scene],  all  of  these  persons 
make  their  way,  in  laughter  and  conversation,  from 
the  right  exit  aisle  across  the  orchestra  space  to  the 
seats  of  the  cavea  on  the  left.  Here,  passing  between 
the  marble  seats  and  mounting  the  tiers  to  their  places, 
they  disappear  from  view  within  the  wings,  whence 
their  flickering  shadows,  cast  down  by  torches  above, 
and  the  humming  sound  of  their  conversation,  give 
token  of  their  presence  in  the  theatre. 

This  humming  sound  is  suddenly  increased  to  a 
murmurous  roar,  upon  the  entrance  —  through  the 
door  in  the  curtain — of  Varius,  Horace,  and  Virgil. 

These,  as  they  descend  the  broad  steps  to  the 
orchestra  space,  are  hailed  from  the  [hidden]  tiers  of 
the  cavea  by  cries  of  "  Varius  !  Horatius  !  Vergilius  !  " 
and  greetings,  blended  and  indistinguishable,  in  Latin. 

Varius  and  the  two  poets  return  these  greetings 
with  smiles  and  gestures  of  friendship,  and  approach 
the  first  seats  of  the  cavea.  There,  looking  up, 


58  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Varius  waves  his  hand,  calls,  "  Maecenas  !  Pollio  !  " 
enters  the  cavea,  and,  mounting  with  his  companions, 
passes  also  to  a  tier  beyond  view. 

At  this  moment,  in  the  curtain-doorway,  clad  in 
simple  Greek  garment  and  wreath  of  gold,  appears 
PROLOGUS,  preceded  by  two  slaves.  To  one  of  the 
slaves  he  hands  a  lighted  taper,  to  the  other  a  bronze 
disk  with  incense  powder.  Descending  the  steps 
with  these,  the  slaves  approach  the  altar,  on  the 
bronze  tripod  of  which  the  one  slave  places  his  disk, 
and  the  other  ignites  the  incense.  Each  then  departs 
at  either  side  aisle.  Meantime,  upon  the  entrance  of 
Prologus,  each  of  the  Flutists  —  his  flute  discarded  — 
gives  blast  to  a  mellow,  antique  horn,  the  sound 
whereof  silences  the  Herculaneum  audience.  Simul 
taneously  Prologus  raises  his  arms,  as  in  invocation, 
toward  the  pale  blue  wreaths  of  smoke  that  float 
upward  from  the  tripod. 

PROLOGUS 

To  Caesar  where  he  sits  in  Rome  our  Emperor, 
Remembrance  !  and  through  him  unto  the  mightier 

gods 

Be  incense  evermore !  —  The  gods  alone  discern 
What  darkly  man  imagines ;  his  pale  future's  dawn 
And  twilit  past  alike  to  them  are  noonday.     We, 
Therefore,  who  meet  this  hour,  expectant  to  behold 
Long-perished  Sappho  and  her  antique  age  awake 
To  life,  ourselves  are  ancients  of  a  time  unborn, 
Shadow-enactors  of  an  audience  of  shades, 
And  as  this  little  smoke  of  incense,  so  are  we 


THE  PRELUDE  59 

On  the  altar  of  the  immortals.  —  What  are  they  ?  — 

Ourselves 

That  were,  ourselves  that  will  be  ever :  Ancestry, 
Posterity  —  they  are  the  gods,  of  whom  we  are 
Both  seed  and  loins  :  one  race,  one  lineage  of  love, 
One  continuity  of  passion  and  of  pain ; 
And  unto  them  this  fleeting  breath  and  smoke  of  us 
Goes  up  in  prayer.  —  Vale  !     Our  tragedy  begins ; 
And  if  the  play  shall  please,  —  Shadows,   applaud 

yourselves  ! 

[Exit  within  the  curtain-door  >  which  closes."] 

Slowly  then  the  curtain  itself  descends  and  disappears,  dis 
closing  the  scene  of  the  Tragedy. 

\_End  of  the  Prelude.] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

KCU  7ro07Jo>  Kat  /xao/xai  .   .   . 
clAAa  trav  ToX/uuxrov.   .   .   . 

—  Sapphonis  Fragmtnta. 

B^  8'  a,K€0)v  irapa  Olva 

—  Iliad,!. 


ACT   I 

SCENE:  A  high  promontory,   overlooking   the 
sea,  sprinkled  with  isles. 


On  the  left,  pillars  of  a  Doric  temple  form  a  colonnade 
which,  stretching  away  left,  disappears  behind  tall 
cypresses.  Behind  these  columns,  tapestries  of  dark 
azure  hide  the  whole  wall  of  the  temple,  concealing  the 
doorway.  Against  the  background,  the  contours  of  the 
pillars  themselves  rise  vast  and  chaste  into  the  ob 
scurity  of  foliage  —  their  capitals  lost  among  ancient 
boughs. 

\Near  the  centre  of  the  scene,  at  back,  against  the  side  wall  of 
the  temple,  built  on  a  raised  and  jutting  rock  and  ap 
proached  by  steps  from  the  colonnade,  stands  an  altar 
of  yellow  marble,  in  which  is  sculptured  a  flying 
dove. 

'Below  this  altar  of  Aphrodite,  the  foreground  on  the  right 
juts  upward  to  it  in  contours  of  the  bare,  weathered 
rock  of  the  promontory  ;  in  this,  a  worn  crevice,  near 
the  centre  of  the  scene,  indicates  the  beginning  of  a 
sheer  cliff  -path,  which  descends  the  precipice  to  the 
unseen  beach,  the  far  sound  of  whose  breakers,  in 
ceaseless  cadence,  rising  murmurous  from  below,  catches 
the  ear  in  pauses  of  the  action.  Near  the  cliff-path,  a 
fire-urn,  upheld  by  sculptured  Nereids.  On  the  right, 
the  seascape  is  defined  by  a  grove  of  olive  trees,  which 
grow  near  to  the  foreground. 
63 


64  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

On  the  edge  of  this  grove,  chiselled  in  colossal  proportions 
out  of  yellow  marble,  rises  a  statue  of  Aphrodite,  con 
ceived  with  the  naive,  pre- classic  simplicity  of  an  age  still 
half  Homeric. 

Similarly,  on  the  left,  a  statue  of  Poseidon.  These  images  do 
not  obtrude  themselves,  but  partly  withdrawn  in  foliage, 
their  large  presences  overshadow  in  silence  the  action 
of  the  Tragedy. 

As  this  scene  is  disclosed  to  view,  voices  of  women  are 
heard  singing  in  unison  within  the  temple. 


THE  VOICES 

Builders,  build  the  roof-beam  high : 

Hymenceon  ! 
More  than  mortal  comes  the  man ; 

Hymenceon  ! 

But  the  maiden  like  a  maid, 
Rose-pale,  rose-red, 

Kala,  O  Chariessa  ! 

\_From  the  temple  appears  ANACTORIA.  She  looks  away, 
right,  then  turning  to  depart,  left,  encounters  ATTHIS 
entering.^ 

ANACTORIA 
So  late  ? 

ATTHIS 
O  Anactoria ! 

ANACTORIA 

Our  lady 
Sappho  hath  bade  me  look  for  thee.  —  Not  weeping 


THE  TRAGEDY  65 

ATTHIS 

He  hath  not  come  !     My  eyes  are  water-blind 
With  staring  on  the  sea,  in  hopes  to  espy 
His  scarlet  sail  slope  from  the  mainland.     Still 
No  sign  —  no  little  gleam  —  of  Larichus. 

ANACTORIA 

Thou  happy  Atthis ! 

ATTHIS 

Happy  ?     But  to-morrow  — 

ANACTORIA 

To-morrow  you  shall  wed  with  Sappho's  brother, 
And  win  for  sister  the  bright  Lesbian  Muse, 
Who  hath  herself  composed  your  bridal-hymn, 
And  he  that  is  Poseidon's  cup-bearer 
Shall  be  your  husband. 

ATTHIS 

Shall  I  not,  then,  weep 

Because  he  does  not  come  ?     Three  days  ago 
He  sailed  for  Lydia,  to  fetch  me  home 
Pearls  for  our  bridal.     Oh,  I  want  not  pearls, 
Nor  any  gift  but  Larichus,  his  love. 

ANACTORIA 

!  Why,  he  will  come.     To-night  the  moon  is  full, 
The  ^gean  calm.  — -  What's  this  ? 


66  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 

I  had  forgot. 

As  I  climbed  up  from  Mitylene  here, 
I  met  Alcaeus,  and  he  gave  me  this 
To  bring  — 

ANACTORIA 

Alcaeus  ?     Give  it  me ! 
\She  snatches  a  vase  from  Atthis^\ 

Dear  gods, 

Let  not  this  trembling  quake  the  promontory 
And  topple  temple  and  all  into  the  waves. 
Daylight  and  dark !  —  Alcceus  sends  me  this. 

ATTHIS 
[Gazes  away,  sighing."] 

O  little  clouds,  why  are  ye  shaped  like  sails  ? 

f 

ANACTORIA 

Fresh  from  his  hands  —  himself  the  potter  !     Here's 
A  painted  vine,  and  under  the  ripe  grapes 
A  dove  hath  wove  her  nest  among  the  verses. 
Verses  and  vase  —  poem  and  painter  —  mine ! 
[She  kisses  the  verse  and  reads. ~\ 

'  The  sea-god  breathes  his  heart  in  the  sea-shell, 
And  leaves  it  on  the  sands,  to  syllable 

One  sound  forever. 

O  maid  of  Lesbos,  murmuring  one  name 
Within  this  vase,  thy  lover's  lips  have  vowed 

Passion  eternal.* 


THE  TRAGEDY  67 

[  With  sudden  abandon,  she  springs  to  Atthis  and  embraces 

her.'] 

My  Atthis,  thou  hast  brought  to  me  in  this 
More  precious  medicine  than  ever  healed 
IFever  and  ague. 

ATTHIS 
I? 

ANACTORIA 

You  do  not  guess ; 

jOf  late  I  have  been  damned  with  jealousy 
That  almost  made  me  hate  him. 


ATTHIS 
[Appalled^ 


Larichus  ? 


ANACTORIA 

jNo,  no,  you  doting  bride  :     Alcaeus.     Quick, 
|What  said  he  when  he  bade  you  bring  me  this  ? 

ATTHIS 

But  that  is  not  for  you.  —  Ah  !  twist  me  not ! 
ilhou  hurtest  my  arm. 

ANACTORIA 

Speak,  then  ! 

ATTHIS 

What  should  I  say  ? 

ANACTORIA 
Vhom  is  this  for  ? 


68  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 
For  Sappho. 

ANACTORIA 
\_Loosing  Atthis,  with  a  cry.~\ 

She  it  was ! 
[Sinks  crouching  upon  the  steps .] 


Atthis! 


ALGOUS 
[Calls  outside.'] 


ATTHIS 

[71?  Anactoria.~] 

My  friend !     I  did  not  guess.  —  Forgive  ! 
[Enter,   left,   ALC^EUS.      He  addresses  Atthis,  who  stands 
before  Anactoria.~\ 

ALOEUS 

Hath  Sappho  seen  it  ?     Hast  thou  shown  it  her  ? 
What  did  she  say  ? 

ANACTORIA 
[Holding  the  vase,  rises. ~] 

Your  lady's  in  the  temple, 
Training  the  chorus  of  her  girl-disciples. 
This  votive  urn  of  incense  from  your  lips 
Hath  not  yet  breathed  in  her  delicate  ear 
"  Passion  eternal ! " 


THE  TRAGEDY  69 


Came  you  with  this  ? 


ALGOUS 
By  Hephaestus,  how 


ANACTORIA 

Oh,  by  Alcasus,  how 

Came  this  to  you  :  this  mad,  this  hollow  love  ? 
Look  !     "  Maid  of  Lesbos,  murmuring  one  name 
Within  this  vase,  thy  lover's  lips  "  —  And  are 
Sappho  and  Anactoria  one  name  ? 
How  ardent  hast  thou  murmured  that  one  name 
Up  at  my  casement  :  "  Anactoria  !  " 
Now  hers  to  her  !     No  other  eyes  but  Sappho's 
Had  done  it  !  —  Atthis,  that  it  should  be  she 
Whom  best  I  love,  our  mistress  and  our  muse, 
Hath  drawn  him  from  me  !     So  she  draws  the  world, 
Day,  evening,  and  the  dawn,  to  wait  on  her  — 
Maiden  and  man,  like  an  immortal. 


ALGOUS 

So 

Love  draws  us  all. 

ANACTORIA 

Not  all  !     To  some  of  us 
Love  beacons  like  a  star. 


ALGOUS 


A  shooting-star  ! 
That  nightly  fills  anew  his  fiery  quiver  ! 


70  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ANACTORIA 

And  this  is  thou  —  Alcaeus  !     O  this  air 
Goes  black  and  red  between  us.     Fare  you  well ; 
But  when  your  Sappho  comes  here  from  the  singing, 
Take  her  your  gift  — 

[From  the  height  of  the  steps,  she  flings  the  vase  at  his  feet, 
dashing  it  in  pieces."] 

and  when  you  lift  it  up, 
Tell  her  it  is  the  heart  of  her  girl-friend. 
[Exit,  right.} 

ALGOUS 
[To  Atthis.] 
Nothing  of  this  to  Sappho ! 

ATTHIS 

Dost  thou  deem 
Others  as  false  as  thou  art  ?     She  shall  know. 


ALGOUS 

\_Springing  up  the  steps.~\ 
But  Atthis  — 

[Exit  Atthis  within  the  temple.] 

If  she  tells  her ! 

[Watching persons  approach,  he  starts  violently.] 

Pittacus ! 

[Enter,  left,   PITTACUS,  followed  by  a  soldier,  to   whom  he 
speaks.] 


THE  TRAGEDY  71 

PITTACUS 

Say  to  the  citizens,  I  will  not  hold 
Council  to-day.     The  sea-wind  blows  too  sweet 
Of  lentisk  and  of  samphire  for  my  thoughts 
To  brood  on  war ;  the  eyes  of  Sappho  are 
A  mightier  tyranny  than  Mitylene.  — 
Wait ;  it  were  wiser  to  omit  that  last. 
{Exit  the  soldier^\ 

ALGOUS 

O  seven  wise  men  of  the  world  in  one ! 
Most  civic  lover —  to  omit  that  last ! 

PITTACUS 
Greeting,  Alcaeus ! 

ALCEUS 

Pittacus  is  gone 
To  smell  the  south  wind.     Therefore,  citizens, 
Adjourn  the  council !     It  were  wiser  not 
Allude  to  tyranny  and  Sappho's  eyes, 
For  Pittacus,  elected  by  the  people, 
Must  keep  one  eye  or  two  for  votes.     Enough, 
He  hath  a  nose  enamoured  of  the  south  wind ! 
What  was  that  odorous  phrase  ?  —  Lentisk  and  sam 
phire  ! 

PITTACUS 
Alcaeus  still  is  young. 

ALGOUS 
And  Pittacus  a  lover ! 
What  says  Archilochus : 
"  Lovers  that  stink  of  leeks 
Put  samphire  in  their  songs" 


72  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PITTACUS 

In  temper  temperance, 
My  friend. 

ALCEUS 

In  lack  of  sense 
Sententiousness,  O  sage ! 
How  is  philosophy 
Selling  per  pound  ?     I  mean 
Without  the  fat,  of  course. 

PITTACUS 

Is  not  this  feud  too  old 
For  us  to  blow  up  fire 
In  the  ashes  ? 

ALC.EUS 

'Tis  as  old 

As  when  you,  gutter-tyrant, 
Imprisoned  me  —  a  noble 
And  knight  of  Lesbos. 

PITTACUS 

For 

Sedition.     Yet  it  seems 
You  now  go  free. 

ALCEUS 
Bright  gods, 

Witness  this  gentle  tyrant ! 
Look  where  the  shouting  people 
Crown  him  with  garlic  leaves ; 


THE  TRAGEDY  73 

For  he  hath  freed  from  prison 

Alcaeus  the  seditious ! 

Hail  him  Magnanimous, 

And  grant  him  in  the  Assembly  — 

A  thousand  extra  votes ! 

PITTACUS 

Sir,  you  go  far. 

ALCJEUS 
Nay,  grant  him 
For  that  great-minded  deed, 
Fair  Sappho's  admiration ! 

PITTACUS 

Insolence ! 

ALGOUS 
Hypocrite ! 

PITTACUS 
[Raising  his  staff ~.~\ 
Go! 

ALCAEUS 

Sniggling  demagogue ! 

[Enter,  right,  PHAON — his  shoulders  stooped  beneath  a  burden 
of  drift-ivood.  Moving  toward  the  temple,  his  path  lies 
between  Alcceus  and  Pittacus.~\ 

PITTACUS 

Thou,  swollen-up  with  words 
And  bitter  wind,  presumptuous 
Fop  — 


74  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALQEUS 

Mule  of  Mitylene, 
Bray !  Let  the  temple  fillies 
Hark  to  thy  hee-haw. 

PITTACUS 

Zeus, 
Chastise  this  man ! 

[Striking  at  Alcczus,  who  springs  back,  the  staff  of  Pittacus 
falls  and  breaks  upon  Phaon,  who  receives  the  blow  with 
mute  passivity  and  passes  on  to  the  temple.     Pittacus 
slowly  lets  fall  the  pieces  of  his  staff. ~\ 

Eternal  Zeus,  thy  hand 

Hath  interposed  this  slave.     Look  where  he  goes, 
Alcaeus ;  dumb,  submissive,  yet  my  blow 
Fell  undeserved. 

ALCEUS 

A  pack-beast ! 

PITTACUS 

True ;  and  yet 

His  silence  hath  a  peace  majestical, 
His  unresistingness,  an  awe !     'Tis  we 
That,  by  comparison,  are  petty  :  we 
That  for  a  snarling  ideality 
Yelp  at  each  other  like  Actaeon's  dogs 
To  tear  our  master  —  our  own  self-command. 
Ah,  passionless  indifference !     That  we 
Might  rather  live  like  yonder  sea-drudge,  callous 
To  quickening  beauty,  and  incapable 
Of  joy  or  anguish  of  imagination, 
Than  thus  in  bondage  of  enamour'd  pain 


THE  TRAGEDY  75 

For  that  immortal  being,  Sappho,  rage 

Vituperate  and  scorn  each  other,  clutch'd 

Mind  against  mind,  man  against  man,  to  possess  her. 

ALCEUS 
[Cynically.] 
Still  you  remain  to  rage. 

PITTACUS 

No ;  fare  you  well, 
Alcseus:  go  you  in  to  Sappho  first 
And  I  will  come  hereafter.     Better  were  it  — 
Far  better  than  this  venom'd  wrangling  —  there 
From  Aphrodite's  rock  into  the  sea 
For  us  to  adventure  the  Leucadian  leap  : 
That  leap  which  brings  to  passionate  lovers  —  death, 
Or  from  the  goddess,  ultimate  repose. 
\_He  passes  from   the  scene,  right.    Alc&us  stands  for  a 
moment,  moved  by  his  words.     Within  the  temple  voices 
once  more  lift  up  the  Sapphic  hymn.     Then  from  the 
temple  emerge,  singing,  the  GIRL-DISCIPLES  of  Sappho, 
and  pass,  left,  away  toward  Mitylene.     SAPPHO  herself, 
followed  at  a  little  distance  by  Atthis,  comes  slowly  down 
the  steps,  twining  a  fillet  of  violets,  lost  in  the  music. 
Seeing  her,  Alcceus  approaches,  passionate,  but  pauses  — 
abashed  by  her  presence^ 

THE  GIRL-DISCIPLES 
Gath'rers,  what  have  ye  forgot 

Hymen&on  / 
Blushing  ripe  on  the  end  of  the  bough  ? 

Hymenceon  ! 


76  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Ripe  now,  but  ye  may  not  reach, 
For  the  bride  is  won,  and  the  groom  is  strong. 
Kala,  O  Chariessa  ! 

[Exeunt.] 


ALGOUS 

Lady  of  violets  and  reverie, 
Sappho  —  I  long  to  speak,  but  shame  restrains  me. 

SAPPHO 

Alcaeus,  had  your  thoughts  been  beautiful, 
Nor  any  double-speech  upon  your  tongue, 
Shame  would  not  turn  away  your  eyes  from  mine  ; 
You  would  have  spoken  simply  to  me  now. 

ALCAEUS 

It  is  not  simple  to  say  beautifully 
What  I  would  say.  —  Hast  thou,  in  Mitylene, 
Watched  the  young  market-maidens  weaving  fillets 
Of  wild  flowers  ?     Know  you  what  men  say  'tis  sign  of  ? 

SAPPHO 

Is  it  a  sign  ? 

ALGOUS 

That  all  such  are  in  love. 
Truly  they  arerbut  country  maids,  and  yet 
Persephone  herself  was  such  a  girl 
Weaving  her  wild-flowers  when  dark  Pluto  plucked  her. 
Lady,  you  too  are  weaving  :  may  I  ask 
For  whom  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  jj 

SAPPHO 

[Holding  out  the  fillet^ 
And  if  I  answered  —  for  Alcaeus  ? 

ALGOUS 
[Ardent. 1 
Sappho ! 

SAPPHO 

[  Withholding  the  fillet^ 
And  if  I  gave  this  —  to  another ! 

[Stooping,  she  lifts  a  fragment  of  the  broken  vase  and  reads  ^\ 
"  Within  this  vase  thy  lovers  lips  have  vowed"  — 
The  vow  itself  is  cracked  :  how  came  it  broken  ? 

ALCAEUS 

[Bitterly.] 

Atthis  hath  told  thee ! 

SAPPHO 

Anactoria 
Is  dear  to  me. 

ALGOUS 

But  she  should  understand  : 
I  loved  her,  and  I  love  her  now  no  more. 
Well,  if  for  this  she  weeps,  let  her  revile 
The  god,  not  me.  —  Can  I  constrain  a  god  ? 
Tether  him  ?      Clip  his  wings  ?     Say  'come*  or  'go'  ? 
Love  is  a  voyager,  and  like  the  wind 
That  shakes  awhile  the  summer  woods  with  music 
Moves  on,  to  stir  the  hearts  of  unknown  bowers. 


;8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

O  love  in  man  !     How  then  in  woman  ?     What 
If  Anactoria  had  scorned  Alcaeus  ? 
Is  there  a  god  and  eke  a  goddess  Love  : 
The  one  all  vagrant,  lawless,  unrestrained, 
Self-seeking  ardour  ?     The  other  —  all  compassion'd 
Submissive  constancy  ?     How  would  it  fare 
With  us,  Alcaeus,  had  you  won  my  love 
And  I  should  prove  untrue  ? 

[from  the  right,  Anactoria  enters  and  rejoins  Atthis  at  the 
steps  of  the  shrine.  There,  while  Atthis  seeks  gently  to 
distract  her,  she  keeps  her  eyes  fixed  in  passionate  brood 
ing  upon  Sappho  and  Alcaus.  The  latter  is  about  to 
reply  to  Sappho,  when  she  stays  him  with  a  smile  and 
gesture^ 

It  matters  not. 

Love  is  indeed  goddess  and  god,  and  man 
And  woman,  and  the  world !     What  shall  it  boot 
To  argue  with  the  shy  anemone, 
Or  reason  with  the  rose  ?  —  This  air  is  spring, 
And  on  this  isle  of  flowers  we  all  are  lovers. 


ALGOUS 
Ah,  then  you  love  me,  Sappho  ! 

SAPPHO 

By  what  token  ? 

ALGOUS 

Even  by  this  speech  of  thine. 


THE  TRAGEDY  79 

SAPPHO 

Eyes  are  the  tongues 

Of  lovers,  and  their  speech  is  light,  not  sound, 
Therefore  you  know  not  Love's  infallible 
Tokens. 

ALCEUS 

But  tell  me ! 

SAPPHO 

Grant  it  then  —  I  love  you  : 
Then,  were  it  so,  what  need  had  you  to  ask  ? 
For  should  I  see  you  but  a  little  instant, 
Then  is  my  voice  choked  and  my  tongue  is  broken ; 
Under  my  flesh  quick  fire  runs  flame  and  quivers ; 
My  eyes  look  blank  on  darkness ;  sounds  of  roaring 
Sing  in  mine  ears ;  chiller  than  death  the  frore  dews 
Dan  ken  my  limbs,  and  pale  as  grass  in  autumn, 

I  tremble. 

[Smiling.'] 

Are  the  tokens  manifest  ? 

[From  the  temple  reenters  Phaon  without  his  burden.  As 
Sappho  turns  her  face  archly  from  Alc&us,  her  eyes  fall 
upon  the  slave,  who,  oblivious,  with  dreamy  gaze  fixed 
upon  the  sea,  approaches  and  passes  her  by,  silent  as  a 
sleep-walker.  Following  his  figure  unconsciously  with 
her  look,  Sappho — with  rapid  gradation  changing  in 
mood  and  aspect  —  begins  to  show  visibly  the  tokens  she 
has  been  describing,  till  overwhelming  faintness  closes 
her  eyes."] 


8o  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 

Why  do  you  mock  me,  lady  ?     Pain  of  hope, 
Pain  of  desire  are  punishment  enough, 
Without  your  irony.  —  Gods,  thou  art  pale  ! 
What  is  it,  Sappho?    Ha!  thou  hast  not  mocked  me! 
You  tremble  :     Nay,  poor  fool,  me  —  happy  fool ! 
Now,  now  I  understand. 

\ 

SAPPHO 
{Faintly.} 

Not  now. 

ALC/EUS 

[  With  lowered  voice.} 

I  know; 

Eyes  only  speak,  and  yours  are  eloquent ; 
They  follow  yonder  slave  to  where  she  stands 
Watching  us  there.  —  Her  jealousy  is  mad  ; 
Let  it  not  move  thee  ;  it  can  touch  us  not ; 
And  what  are  we  to  Anactoria 
That  —  lean  on  me  ! 

\He   reaches  to  support  Sappho,   whose  eyes   have  closed. 
Exit  Phaon,  right.} 

SAPPHO 
Later  —  to-night. 


ALGOUS 

But  Sappho  — 


THE  TRAGEDY  8 1 

SAPPHO 
Under  the  stars  to-night ;  here,  by  the  temple  — 

[Slowly,  looking  away  rightl\ 
jWhen  there  are  no  slaves  passing. 

ALGOUS 
[Kissing  her  robe.~\ 

Till  to-night! 

[He  departs  by  the  colonnade,  exultant.  Sappho  stands  silent, 
shaken  by  deep  breaths  of  a  great  emotion.  Anactoria, 
whose  eyes  have  never  left  Sappho's  face,  seeing  her  now 
alone,  leaves  Atthis  who  seeks  fearfully  to  detain  her  by 
catching  at  a  lyre  which  Anactoria  carries  rigidly  in  her 
arm.~\ 

ATTHIS 

iWait ;  let  me  play  to  thee  ! 

^[Unheeding,  Anactoria  approaches  Sappho  and  comes  very 
close,  before  Sappho,  opening  her  arms  with  a  glad  start, 
embraces  herJ\ 

SAPPHO 

My  Toria. 

[Allowing  Sappho  to  draw  her  face  close  to  hers,  Anactoria 
speaks   then   in   a   tense,  low  voice.     Before  she  has 
finished  speaking,  she  springs  loose,  with  a  spurning 
gesture. ~\ 

ANACTORIA 

|Oh,  that  I  were  a  beast  on  the  wild  hills, 
:|And  I  had  borne  thee  to  my  twilight  lair 
jAlive,  and  there  had  bitten  thee  to  death, 
And  dabbled  all  thy  beauty  in  the  dew  — 
;,And  he  to  look  upon  it  1 


82  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
Toria ! 

ANACTORIA 

{Wildly.'} 

Oh,  call  me  not  that  name  ;  it  is  too  dear. 
So  did  you  call  me  first  that  silver  night 
Below  your  orchard,  when  you  taught  me  first 
To  strike  this  plectron  on  this  lyre.  —  You  kissed  me 
And  cried :  "  Well  played,  my  Toria  !  " 

SAPPHO 

And  so 
I'll  kiss  thee,  dear,  a  thousand  silver  nights. 

ANACTORIA 

[Holding  the  plectron  like  a  daggeret.] 
Come  not  so  close  ;  I'll  scratch  thy  cheek  with  this, 
And  stencil  in  thy  blood  Alcaeus'  name, 
That  all  may  read  how  Sappho  loved  her  friend. 

SAPPHO 
[To  Atthis^ 

And  so  for  this  she  would  she  were  a  beast 
To  dabble  all  my  beauty  in  the  dew  ! 

[Turning  to  Anactoria  with  gentle  laughter.~\ 
O  girl ! 

ANACTORIA 

I  heard  you  bid  him  come  to-night. 


THE  TRAGEDY  83 

SAPPHO 
said  to-night  ? 

ANACTORIA 

Wilt  thou  deny  it  ? 

SAPPHO 

Let 

Alcaeus  come  to-night,  then.     I  will  be 

unctual  to  his  coming,  and  if  thou 
Hast  deemed  me  ever  a  wise  art-mistress,  trust  me 

To  teach  him  such  a  lesson  then  in  love 
As  he  shall  long  remember  —  for  thy  sake. 
Come,  wilt  thou  love  thine  old  friend — one  night  more? 

ANACTORIA 

[  Going  to  her  and  embracing  her  knees. ~] 
0  dear  and  mighty !     Thou  art  not  as  we. 

SAPPHO 

A  goddess  once  again  ?     No  cheeks,  eyes,  elbows 
To  be  restored  ?     Why,  truly,  then,  these  poets 
Are  wise  who  sing :  "  Hail,  Sappho,  thou  tenth  Muse ! " 
Therefore  rise  up,  sweet  mortal,  and  attend 
low  I  shall  prove  my  Musehood  by  a  song. 
[Taking  the  lyre  from  Anactorial\ 

Hand  me  the  plectron.  —  Atthis,  sit  with  us 
lere.     'Tis  a  Linus-song  for  vintagers 
To  chant  in  autumn.     Therefore,  'Toria, 
f  thou  wilt  weep,  weep  not  for  Cupid,  but 

Adonis.  —  Kiss  me  !     Now  this  will  I  sing 

Deftly  to  please  my  girl-friends. 


84  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

[Sappho  is  seated  on  the  marble  bench,  right;  Atthis  on  the 
ground  before  her.  Anactoria,  standing  beside  the 
bench,  turns  away  while  Sappho  sings  and,  overcome 
with  restrained  weeping,  steals  off  through  the  colonnade. 
Meantime,  from  the  right,  Pittacus  has  appeared  .and 
stands  listening,  unseen."] 

What  shall  we  do,  Cytherea  ? 
Tender  Adonis  is  dying ! 

What  shall  we  do  ? 
Rend,  rend  your  delicate  tunics, 
Rend,  rend  your  breasts,  O  my  maidens : 

Weep  —  Ai  le  nu! 

[Looking  after  Anactoria.} 

Poor  jealousy  !  —  Run,  fetch  her  back  to  us, 
And  take  her  this. 

ATTHIS 
[Taking  the  lyre  from  SapphoJ] 

I  fear  she  will  not  come. 
[Exit.} 

PITTACUS 

[Approaches  Sappho  with  hesitating  deference.} 
Clear  voice  of  Lesbos  — 


SAPPHO 
[Turning} 

Lord  of  Mitylene ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  8 

PITTACUS 

jLady,  in  Athens,  the  last  time  I  met 
Ion,  the  tyrant,  he  was  in  his  garden, 
nd  where  he  sat  the  almond-blossoms  fell 
n  his  white  hair.     He  had  thrown  his  parchments 

down 

And  looked  on  me  with  eyes  that  saw  me  not, 
For  near  him  stood  a  slender,  thrush-voiced  boy 
Gushing  a  song.     And  when  the  boy  had  ceased, 
"  Whose  song  was  that  ?  "  he  asked.     The  boy  said, 

"  Sappho's :  " 

nd  Solon,  speaking  low,  said  :  "  Sing  that  only  ! 
that  I  may  not  die  before  I  learn  it." 


SAPPHO 
>olon  was  wise ;   my  songs  are  beautiful. 

PITTACUS 
[For  they  are  you.     Sappho,  I  also  am 

'yrant  and  lawgiver.     My  function  'tis 
|In  war  and  peace  to  engineer  this  isle, 
.nd  through  the  level  conduits  of  the  mind 
'o  irrigate  the  state  with  the  still  waters 
)f  reason  ;    I  have  schooled  and  flogged  my  will 

the  iron  whips  of  Sparta ;   and  my  words 
sown  abroad  for  wisdom  ;   yet  —  O  hear  me  ! 
"hy  voice  hath  loosed  in  me  a  thousand  streams 
[That  overleap  their  banks,  and  inundate 
My  ordered  world  with  passion  ;   vain  it  is 
I  strive  to  dam  those  springs  ;   their  foaming  tides 


86  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Burst  into  glorious  laughter,  and  I  drown 
Rapturous ;   vain  it  is  I  charge  my  soul  — 
This  love  is  madness,  peril  and  despair ! 
I  know  that  it  is  madness  —  yet  I  love  you. 

SAPPHO 

Are  you,  then,  mad?     Does  not  supreme  desire 
Beget  the  supreme  joy  ?     This  engineered, 
Wise-ordered  state  of  yours  —  when  you  have  cast 
Its  lovers  forth  on  some  bleak  lepers'  rock 
In  the  barren  sea ;   when  you  have  builded  all 
Its  solemn  temples  of  serenity, 
And  sculptured  on  its  gates  your  city's  god  — 
The  massy  image  of  Indifference ; 
When  you  have  set  up  in  the  public  ways 
Fountains  of  running  reason,  where  cold  virgins 
And  silent  boys,  with  philosophic  beards, 
Fill  their  chaste  pitchers,  and  turn  dumbly  home 
To  tipple  with  their  grandsires  —  tell  me,  then  ! 
Will  you  not  fear,  some  day,  an  insurrection, 
When  those  same  boys  and  girls,  with  flying  hair 
And  eyes  aflame,  shall  drag  you  in  the  market 
And  cry  :    "  Our  lovers  !  Give  us  back  our  lovers ! 
Give  us  our  mad  joys  and  our  loves  again ! " 

PITTACUS 

Sappho,  the  wild  bees  of  Persuasion  hive 
Between  your  lips.     Call  me  what  name  you  will : 
Sage  —  madman ;  only  take  from  me  my  gift 
In  love. 


THE  TRAGEDY  S 

SAPPHO 
What  do  you  offer  ? 

PITTACUS 

Mitylene. 

SAPPHO 
As  mine  ? 

PITTACUS 
To  rule  with  me. 

SAPPHO 

Is  not  such  rather 
A  man's,  not  woman's  office  ? 

PITTACUS 

Yours  alone 
Of  women  !    See,  a  little  while  ago 
I  brought  this  staff  to  you  :  you  were  in  the  temple, 
And  here  I  met  Alcaeus  ;  here  for  you 
We  wrangled,  and  in  wrath  I  lifted  this 
And  left  it  —  so. 

SAPPHO 

Heigh  me  !     A  vase,  a  sceptre : 
And  now  both  dashed  in  pieces  at  my  feet ! 
Surely  this  Sappho  is  a  stony  image 
And  not  a  maid,  to  shatter  such  love-tokens. 
You  struck  Alcaeus  ? 

PITTACUS 

No,  by  chance  the  blow 
Fell  on  a  passing  slave. 


88  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 


You  said  —  a  slave  ? 


SAPPHO 
[Slowly.} 


POTACUS 

A  sea-drudge 

With  drift-wood  for  Poseidon's 
Night-fire. 

SAPPHO 
[Breathing  quick.] 

Give  me  the  pieces. 
His  flesh,  you  say  ? 

PITTACUS 

His  flesh  ? 
It  did  not  strike  Alcaeus  ! 


SAPPHO 
[Feeling  the  stops  splintered  edge.~\ 

No,  but  his  bare  flesh  !     On 
His  shoulder  ? 


The  slave. 


PITTACUS 
It  struck  only 

SAPPHO 

[  Quivering."] 

The  bright  blood  started ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  89 

PITTACUS 

There  sprang  no  blood,  dear  lady ;  the  staff  broke 
Against  the  fagots  on  the  fellow's  shoulder.  — 
All  for  mere  words  !     Alcaeus  had  but  gibed  me 
With  foolish  words.     Judge  now  if  I  have  need 
Of  you,  to  sway  the  staff  of  Mitylene. 

SAPPHO 

[After  a  brief '  pause  ^ 

True,  Pittacus  ;  why  should  we  not  splice  these 
In  one,  and  wield  this  staff  together  ?     Grant 
I'm  but  a  slave,  being  but  woman ;  yet 
If  you,  that  are  the  maker  of  your  law, 
If  you  detect  in  me  this  civic  gift 
Surpassing  woman,  shall  you  not  then  leap 
This  breach  of  sex,  and  make  me  your  true  mate  — 
Greatly  your  wife  and  lover  ? 


PITTACUS 

Speak  with  pity ! 
Let  me  not  doubt  I  hear  this. 


SAPPHO 

Hear  it  well, 

For  I  would  reason,  too  :     A  slave,  I  said, 
But  —  turn  the  tables  !      You  are  now  the  slave 
(No  maid  as  I,  but  such  a  bondman,  say, 
As  that  same  drift-wood  bearer  whom  you  struck), 
And  I  am  maiden-tyrant  of  Mitylene, 
Over  all  Lesbos  lawgiver  of  love. 


90  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PITTACUS 
Even  as  thou  art ! 

SAPPHO 

Why  then,  you  poor  base  slave, 
If  I  detect  in  your  sea-sinew'd  limbs 
Olympian  graces  moving,  if  I  see 
Far  in  your  cold  deep  eyes  daemonic  fire 
Outburning  the  eye-glance  of  a  faun  in  love, 
If  I  behold  in  you,  outcast,  my  kin 
Congenial  spirit,  may  I  not  reach  to  you 
My  tyrant's  staff,  and  raise  you  at  my  side  — 
No  more  a  thing  for  men  to  scorn,  but  now 
Greatly  my  lord  and  lover  ? 

PITTACUS 

What  would  .  .  .  ? 

SAPPHO 

Wait ! 

Or  must  I  now  because  I  am  a  woman, 
Forego  the  tyrant's  great  prerogative  — 
To  make  mine  own  law  ? 

PITTACUS 

Sappho,  but  to  what 
Leads  this?     I  do  not  follow  you. 

SAPPHO 

It  leads 

To  the  Golden  Age.     If  you  would  get  my  love, 
Follow  me  there. 

[Turning  away,  Sappho  springs  to  the  steps  of  Aphrodite 's 
shrine.] 


THE  TRAGEDY  91 

PITTACUS 

Have  you,  then,  only  mocked  me  ? 
Am  I  to  come  no  more  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Pausing.  ] 

Nay,  Pittacus, 
I  have  but  mocked  myself.     Come  when  you  will. 

PITTACUS 

To-night  ?     Under  these  olives  ? 

SAPPHO 

When  you  will ; 

And  so,  good-by  !     Oh,  you  have  given  me  thoughts 
To  make  the  woman  tremble  in  me. 

PITTACUS 

Sappho ! 

[  With  a  gesture  of  love  toward  her,  as  she  turns  again  to  the 
steps,  he  departs,  left.  Sappho,  having  mounted  to  the 
shrine,  prostrates  herself  before  it;  then  — facing  the 
jftgean,  seated,  her  arms  about  her  knees,  plastic,  silent 
— gazes  down  upon  the  waves.  From  the  colonnade 
Atthis  enters  and  searches  about  with  her  eyes. ~\ 

ATTHIS 
Where  art  thou,  Sappho  ? 

[Discovering  her,  Atthis  ascends  the  steps^\ 

Anactoria 

Is  wilful,  and  she  swears  she  will  not  come 
Again,  till  she  has  sought  Alcaeus  out 


92  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

And   dragged   him   to   thy   scorn. — Thou  hast  not 

heard  me. 

Sweet  mistress,  here  is  Atthis.     What  hath  happened 
That  like  an  image  thou  sittst  staring  ? 

SAPPHO 

\In  a  low  voice. ~\ 

Hark! 
She  is  calling  me. 

ATTHIS 

Who  calls  ? 


SAPPHO 

My  mother. 
ATTHIS 

[Starting.'] 

Sappho ! 
SAPPHO 

Dost  thou  not  hear  her  sob  and  sing  below  us  ? 
Her  hollow  lute  is  turquoise,  and  she  touches 
The  silver  strings  of  ever-roaring  reefs 
Far  off  to  sound  her  awful  lullaby  ; 
And  while  she  croons,  between  her  foaming  breasts  — 
Like  infants  at  their  milk  —  Hyperion  lies 
And  heaving  Triton  dreams.     Us  too,  us  mortals, 
She  suckles  there,  and  there  she  buries  us. 

ATTHIS 
What  new  hymn  art  thou  musing  ? 

SAPPHO 

Listen  again ! 

Oh,  such  a  sobbing  cry  did  Thetis  make 
That  night  she  rose  beside  the  blood-starr'd  beach 


THE  TRAGEDY  93 

Of  Troy,  to  her  great  son  Achilles,  ere 
He  died.     Me,  too,  she  calls  :     I  sink,  I  sink  ! 
Atthis,  I  have  heard  the  whirling  cliff-birds  scream, 
And  watched  my  breaths  burst  up  through  the  green 

wave 
In  moons  of  opal  fire. 

ATTHIS 

I  am  afraid ; 
Is  it  some  goddess  calls  thee  ? 

SAPPHO 

Tis  the  sea, 

The  teeming,  terrible,  maternal  sea 
That  spawned  us  all.     She  calls  me  back  to  her, 
But  I  will  not  go.     Her  womb  hath  brought  me  forth 
A  child  defiant.     I  will  be  free  of  her  ! 
Her  ways  are  birth,  fecundity,  and  death, 
But  mine  are  beauty  and  immortal  love. 
Therefore  I  will  be  tyrant  of  myself  — 
Mine  own  law  will  I  be !     And  I  will  make 
Creatures  of  mind  and  melody,  whose  forms 
Are  wrought  of  loveliness  without  decay, 
And  wild  desire  without  satiety, 
And  joy  and  aspiration  without  death ; 
And  on  the  wings  of  those  shall  I,  I,  Sappho  ! 
Still  soar  and  sing  above  these  cliffs  of  Lesbos, 
Even  when  ten  thousand  blooms  of  men  and  maids 
Are  fallen  and  withered — there. 

[Peering  below,  she  touches  Atthis*  arm  and points '.] 

What  man  is  that? 


94  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 
Where  ? 

SAPPHO 

There,  beneath  us,  where  the  cliff-path  leaves 
The  beach.     See,  he  is  climbing  toward  our  faces. 

ATTHIS 

I  am  dizzy. 

SAPPHO 

He  is  clinging  to  the  rock 

Of  garnet,  where  the  sea-doves  build  their  nests. 
He  is  reaching  over  it.  —  Atthis,  he  will  fall ! 


ATTHIS 

I  see  him  now  —  a  fisherman  :  his  net 
Is  over  his  shoulder. 

SAPPHO 

He  hath  seized  it,  look 
A  young  dove !     And  he  brings  it  in  the  net. 


ATTHIS 

A  slave. 

SAPPHO 

Know  you  his  name  ? 


ATTHIS 

His  name  is  Phaon. 


THE  TRAGEDY  95 

SAPPHO 
[Slowly.] 

Phaon  !     And  so  'tis  Phaon !  and  forever 
*  Sappho  and  Phaon.' 

ATTHIS 
Dost  thou  muse  again  ? 

SAPPHO 

When  lovers'  names  are  born,  their  syllables 
Fall  like  the  snowflakes  of  Apollo's  tears, 
That  crystallize  in  song. 

[Murmuring. ~\ 

—  Sappho  and  Phaon  ! 

ATTHIS 

Tis  not  a  slave  like  others.     You  have  heard 
What  the  old  sea-wives  whisper. 


SAPPHO 

No. 


ATTHIS 

Of  him 
And  Aphrodite  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Eagerly.'] 
Nay,  what  do  they  whisper  ? 


96  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 

They  say  that  once,  when  Phaon  was  a  boy, 
One  twilight,  when  the  ^Egean  was  uptorn 
By  mighty  wind  and  thunder,  and  the  fish-folk 
Prayed  in  their  harbours  —  at  the  tempest's  height, 
Appeared  upon  the  beach  an  old,  poor  woman 
y    And  begged  a  passage  to  the  mainland.     None 
Heard  her  but  scoffed  or  cursed  her ;  only  Phaon 
Unloosed  his  boat,  and  rowed  her  through  the  storm 
To  Lydia.     At  dawn,  when  he  returned, 
His  look  was  altered  and  he  spoke  strange  things ; 
How,  when  his  boat  reached  mainland,  the  poor  hag 
Had  cast  her  cloak  and  sprung,  with  burning  limbs, 
Upon  the  sands  —  a  goddess !     Since  which  night 
(They  say)  he  hath  grown  up  indifferent 
To  all  his  kith  and  kind ;  to  laughter,  love, 
And  slave-girls  singing.  —  'Tis  a  pretty  tale ; 
Wouldst  thou  not  love  to  make  a  song  of  it  ? 

SAPPHO 

In  truth,  my  Atthis,  'tis  a  moving  tale, 
And  I  should  love  to  make  a  song  of  it. 
Leave  me ! 

ATTHIS 

Wilt  thou  compose  it  on  the  spot  ? 

Nay,  then  I'll  go  for  news  of  Larichus. 

\Atthis  departs  toward  Mitylene.  Sappho,  left  alone, 
descends  from  the  shrine  and  leans  against  one  of  the 
temple  pillars.  From  the  cliff-path,  Phaon  enters. 
About  him  is  flung  a  sea-net,  under  the  hanging  folds 
of  which  he  holds  in  his  hands,  enmeshed,  a  white  dove. 


THE  TRAGEDY 


97 


Seeing  htm,  Sappho  withdraws  into  the  temple  through 
the  tapestries,  from  between  which  she  soon  looks  forth 
again.  Slowly  Phaon  descends  the  broad  steps  and, 
sitting  upon  the  last,  extricates  the  dove  from  the  net. 
As  he  rises  with  it  in  his  hand  and  goes  toward  the 
altar  of  Poseidon,  Sappho  —  unseen  of  him  —  come s 
from  the  temple  and  descends  the  steps  behind  him. 
Having  reached  the  altar,  Phaon  is  about  to  lift  a  knife 
which  lies  upon  it,  when  Sappho  stays  his  arm.  Seeing 
her,  he  bends  low  in  a  subjected  manner.] 

SAPPHO 
The  dove :  what  wouldst  thou  with  the  wild  thing  ? 


PHAON 
[Serenely.} 

SAPPHO 
It  struggles.     See,  is  not  it  beautiful  ? 

PHAON 

I  know  not ;  you  have  spoken. 


Kill  it. 


SAPPHO 


But  for  whom 


Wilt  thou  then  kill  it,  bondman  ? 


The  god  is  angry. 


PHAON 

For  Poseidon ; 


98  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Oh,  not  for  Poseidon ! 
His  sacrifice  is  death ;  to  Aphrodite 
Give  it !     For  her  the  sacrifice  is  life. 
Give  it  to  me  and  I  will  dedicate  it 
Alive  to  Aphrodite,  for  it  is 

.    Her  sacred  bird.     Look,  I  will  give  thee  this  — 
My  bracelet  —  for  the  dove. 

PHAON 

[Taking,  as  at  a  command,  Sappho's  bracelet,  releases  the 
dove  into  her  hands .] 

'Tis  yours. 

SAPPHO 

Her  shrine 

Is  yonder.     I  will  loose  it  to  her  there. 

[Starting  for  the  shrine,  Sappho  treads  upon  the  net,  which 
Phaon  before  has  let  fall  beside  the  steps.  Pausing,  she 
looks  back  at  him,  where  he  stands  intent  upon  the 
gleaming  bracelet  in  his  hand.  For  a  moment  she  con 
tinues  to  look  at  Phaon  thus,  then,  wrapping  the  dove  in 
her  filmy  scarf,  and  placing  it  with  her  flowers  on  the 
steps,  she  lifts  the  net  where  it  liesl\ 

Thy  net  is  torn. 

PHAON 

I  climbed  here  from  the  beach. 
It  caught  on  the  cliff -rocks. 

SAPPHO 

I  will  mend  it. 


THE  TRAGEDY  99 

PHAON 
\For  the  first  time  gazing  at  her.] 

You! 

}  [Fastening  one  end  of  the  net — somewhat  more  than 
shoulder-high  —  to  the  tripod  on  the  altar,  Sappho 
secures  the  other  end  to  the  bronze  caryatid,  right.  Thus 
(the  net  cutting  the  foreground  obliquely  from  the  middle} 
her  face  is  separated  from  Phaorfs  by  the  interlaced 
strands,  some  of  which  —  hanging  torn  —  leave  gaps  in 
the  fibre?[ 

SAPPHO 
To  mend  is  woman's  task. 


PHAON 
\_In  wonder. ~\ 

Are  you  a  woman  ? 


SAPPHO 

Perhaps  I  am  what  women  yearn  to  be : 
Man. 

PHAON 
Did  you  grow  here  in  the  temple  ? 

SAPPHO 

Where 

.  I  grew,  or  in  what  garden  by  the  spray 
j  Or  wave-lit  cave  my  spirit's  seed  was  sown, 
*  Surely  'tis  thou  who  knowest :  for  methinks 
Thou  also  grewest  there. 


100  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

It  may  be  so. 

SAPPHO 
Stood  we  not  then  as  now  ?  and  raised  as  now 

The  net  between  us  ? 

•j 

PHAON 

[Strangely."] 
Somewhat  I  remember. 

SAPPHO 

And  even  as  now  thine  eyes  shone  through  the  meshes, 
And  mine  in  thine  :  was  it  not  always  so  ? 


In 


PHAON 

idifferent,  begins  to  tie  strands  of  the  netl\ 
Tis  broken. 

SAPPHO 

Ah,  but  shall  be  mended  !     I 
Will  tie  the  fibres. 

[In  silence  now  for  a   little,  they  stand  mending  the  net: 
Phaon  before  it,  dumbly  engrossed  in  his  task ;  Sappho, 
from  behind,  thrusting  at  times  her  white  hand  or  arm\ 
through  a  gap  to  reach  for  a  strand,  and  keeping  her 
eyes  burningly  intent  upon  Phaon.~\ 

You  are  a  boatman. 


PHAON 

Yes. 


THE  TRAGEDY  IOI 

SAPPHO 
Go  you  alone  upon  the  water  ? 

PHAON 

Yes. 

SAPPHO 
When  you  are  all  alone,  are  you  afraid  ? 

PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 

Put  you  ever  far  to  sea  ? 

PHAON 

Sometimes. 

SAPPHO 
And  have  you  never  rowed  to  the  mainland  ? 


PHAON 

Oft. 

SAPPHO 
By  tempest  ? 

PHAON 
Once. 

SAPPHO 

A  storm  at  twilight  ? 


PHAON 

Once. 


102  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Oh,  is  it  true,  then,  what  the  sea- wives  tell  ? 
Was  she  a  goddess  ? 

PHAON 

Long  ago  !    'twas  long 
Ago.     I  was  a  boy,  and  that's  all  dark. 


SAPPHO 

And  have  you  never  seen  her  since  she  sprang 
Burning,  upon  the  sands  of  Lydia  ? 

PHAON 

[Momentarily  ardent.'} 
Sometimes  methought — I  know  not. 


SAPPHO 

Still  you  dreamec 
You  saw. 

PHAON 

How  knowest  thou? 


SAPPHO 

Tell  me  your  dreams 

[After    a  pause,    Phaon  —  with    a   rapt    smile  —  speaks 
While  he  does  so,  Sappho  —  who  has  unwittingly  tied] 
his  left  wrist  in  one  of  the  meshes  where  his  hand  rests\ 
—  comes  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  net,  and  draws] 
near  to  him.'] 


THE  TRAGEDY  103 

PHAON 

Oft  ere  the  day,  while  all  the  slaves  are  sleeping, 
I  and  my  boat  put  out  on  the  black  water  ; 
Under  us  there  and  over  us,  the  stars  sing 

Songs  of  that  silence. 
Soon  then  the  sullen,  brazen-horned  oxen 
Rise  in  the  east,  and  slowly  with  their  wind-ploughs 
Break  in  the  acres  of  the  broad  ^Egean 

Furrows  of  fire. 

So,  many  a  time  there,  as  I  leaned  to  watch  them 
Yoked  in  their  glory,  sudden  'gainst  the  sunrise 
Seemed  that  there  stood  a  maiden  —  a  bright  shadow  — 

SAPPHO 
Ah,  you  beheld  her  ! 

[From  the  colonnade,  behind  the  farthest  pillar,  Alcaus  and 
Anactoria  enter  and  pause.  Anactoria,  nearly  con 
cealed  by  the  pillar,  points  out  to  Alcczus  the  figures  (on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  net)  of  Phaon  and  Sappho, 
where,  standing  together,  they  are  visible  through  the 
meshes.  Alc&us*  face  darkens.  Sappho,  not  seeing 
them,  speaks  in  a  low,  impassioned  voice  to  Phaon.  ~\ 

Look  in  my  face.     What  were  her  features  like  — 
Hers,  that  bright  shadow  ? 


Have  tied  me  in  the  mesh. 


PHAON 

I  am  tangled  ;  you 


SAPPHO 

I  tied  you  ? 


104  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

Here  — 

My  wrist. 

SAPPHO 

Did  I  do  this  ? 

PHAON 

You  see  —  the  noose. 

SAPPHO 

But  did  you  feel  me  tie  this  ? 

PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 
[Murmurs, .] 

'Twas  she ! 

Your  hand  is  fast ;  know  you  who  made  it  fast  ? 
'Twas  she:  her  fingers  drew  these  knots. 

PHAON 

Untie  them. 

\AlcauS)     darkly,     and     Anactoria,     radiant,     withdraw 
unseen.] 

SAPPHO 

Nay,  but  who  knows  what  wise,  unconscious  plot 
Her  deft,  strange  fingers  wove  to  trap  thee  ?     Thou 
Perchance  hast  trespassed  here  too  near  her  shrine, 
And,  having  stranded  thee  in  thine  own  net, 
She  now  is  loath  to  toss  thee  back  again 
In  the  sea,  to  thy  dumb  mermen. 


THE  TRAGEDY  105 

PHAON 
[  Working  with  his  right  handl\ 

They  are  fine, 
These  knots. 

SAPPHO 

And  so  perchance,  for  chastisement, 
She  hath  contrived  this  noose  to  keep  thee  here 
In  speech  with  her,  till  thou  shalt  call  to  mind 
The  face,  and  name  the  name,  of  her  you  love. 

PHAON 

I  mind  it  well  —  her  face.     Unloose  me. 

SAPPHO 

Look! 
Is  it  a  dream-face  still  ?  —  A  shadow  ? 

PHAON 

No; 
Tis  with  me  days  and  nights.     It  is  familiar. 

SAPPHO 

And  yours  to  her  familiar  as  these  nights 
And  days  —  and  yet  as  worshipful  and  strange. 

PHAON 
\_ 
Untie  me. 

SAPPHO 

First,  her  name  !     You  may  not  slip 
Her  noose,  till  you  have  guessed  the  name  of  her 
You  love. 


106  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 
I  know  it  well. 

SAPPHO 
\_Smiling.~\ 

Methinks  you  boast 

To  seem  more  skilled  than  she  in  guessing  yours. 
How  call  you  her  ? 

PHAON 
\  Thalassa. 

SAPPHO 
[After  a  pause.] 

What  is  that  ? 

PHAON 
Her  name. 

SAPPHO 

What's  she? 

PHAON 

A  slave. 

SAPPHO 

And  what  is  she 

To  you? 

PHAON 

She's  mine ;  maketh  my  fire. 

SAPPHO 

Ah! 


THE  TRAGEDY  IO/ 

PHAON 


Loose  me. 


SAPPHO 
You  do  not  dwell  alone,  then  ? 


PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 

You  are  wed  ? 

PHAON 
We  are  slaves ;  slaves  are  not  wed. 

SAPPHO 

No  ;  but  you  love  her. 

PHAON 

Yes  ;  children  have  I  got  with  her  ;  the  bairn 
Is  stricken  of  the  fever. 

SAPPHO 
[Seizing  the  knife,  cuts  the  meshes  of  the  net.] 

Go ;  you  are  free. 
\Phaongoes,  silent.] 
Stay  ;  I  have  cut  your  wrist. 


PHAON 

A  scratch. 


SAPPHO 

It  bleeds. 


108  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

The  bairn  is  sick  and  I  must  sacrifice 
A  young  dove  to  our  lord  Poseidon.     Soon 
Its  mother  will  be  here,  to  pray  with  me 
For  the  babe's  life. 

SAPPHO 

Where  is  its  mother  now  ? 


PHAON 

She  is  gone  up  to  the  city,  to  the  house 
Of  Sappho  —  the  great  lady. 


SAPPHO 

Oh,  of  Sappho ! 
What  does  she  there  ? 


PHAON 

She  is  gone  to  the  slave-quarters 
With  crawfish  and  sea-tortoise  for  a  feast. 
Methinks  the  lady's  brother  shall  be  wed 
To-morrow. 

SAPPHO 

She  is  gone  to  the  slave-quarters.  — 
Let  see  thy  wrist.  —  The  house  of  Sappho  is 
A  slave's  house.  —  Ah,  the  blood ! 
[  Tearing  a  shred  from  her  garment,  she  binds  his  wrist.~\ 

I,  too,  have  heard 
Of  Sappho  —  the  great  slave. 


THE  TRAGEDY  109 

PHAON 

Nay,  'tis  a  noble 

Maiden  of  Lesbos.     At  Apollo's  feast 
Once,  in  the  crowd,  I  saw  her  fillet  pass 
Above  the  virgins'  heads  into  the  palace, 
And  all  the  people  shouted  :  lo  Sappho  ! 

SAPPHO 

Believe  it  not ;  the  people  were  deceived. 
I  know  her  well  and  she  was  born  in  chains  — 
A  weak  and  wretched  fellow-slave  of  thine, 
Whose  proudest  joy  were  but  to  bind  the  hurt 
Which  she  hath  given  thee,  even  as  I  do  now. 
Dost  thou  not  hear  me  ?    Whereon  dost  thou  gaze  ? 

PHAON 

[Looking  of,  left.] 
She  is  coming. 

SAPPHO 

Phaon !     Phaon ! 

PHAON 

\_For  the  first  time  turning  upon   her  a  wild  unconscious 
look  of  love,  grasps  his  bound  wrist  tightly -.] 

Ah !  it  pains. 

[Enter  THALASSA,  bearing  a  willow  basket  of  strange  design. 
She  is  dishevelled  with  seaweed  and  her  long,  fair  hair, 
tinged  with  the  green  of  salt  ooze,  has  partly  slipped  its 
fillet  of  vari-coloured  shells.  She  moves  impassively  to 
Phaon,  and  speaks  in  a  low  monotone^ 


1 10  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

THALASSA 

The  day's  dead ;  the  moon's  with  child  ; 
The  tide's  full.     I  saw  far  out 
A  shark's  fin.  —  Poseidon  calls. 
Hast  killed  it  ? 

PHAON 

[Pointing  toward  Sappho.] 
She  bade  me  not. 

THALASSA 
[Turning  to  Sappho,  who  shrinks  from  her  behind  the  net, 

bows  herself  low  in  obeisance.] 
What  Sappho  forbiddeth  thee 
The  sea-god  hath  bidden  thee.  — 
The  babe  shall  have  sacrifice. 

PHAON 

[Looking  at  Sappho,  with  a  rush  of  thought.] 
'  What,  Sappho  '  —  ! 

THALASSA 

The  sea-dove  —  where 
Didst  hide  it  ? 

PHAON 
'Tis  there. 
[As  Thalassa  goes  toward  the  steps] 

'Tis  hers. 

She  bought  it ;  this  bracelet  gave 
To  save  its  life. 


THE  TRAGEDY  III 

THALASSA 

Give  it  me. 

[Taking  the  bracelet  from  Phaon,  she  holds  it  against  the 
sunset,  turning  and  turning  it  in  the  lightl\ 

PHAON 

[Standing  at  a  distance.'} 

And  are  you  Sappho  ?     Yet  did  speak  my  name, 
And  bind  my  wrist,  and  call  yourself  a  slave ! 

SAPPHO 

And  art  thou  Phaon  ?     Phaon  for  whom  the  stars 
Sang,  and  the  brazen-horned  oxen  ploughed 
The  acres  of  the  sunrise  ?     Yet  thou  lovest  —  this  ? 

PHAON 

You  said  :  "  I  know  her  well,  and  she  was  born 

In  chains  —  a  fellow-slave !  "     What  did  you  mean  ? 


Thalassa 


SAPPHO 
[Gazing,  curious  and  incredulous. ,] 


THALASSA 
[Slipping  the  bracelet  over  her  arml\ 

It  shineth  fine : 
See,  Phaon ! 

SAPPHO 

Thalassa,  where's 
Thy  home  ? 


112  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOW 

THALASSA 

On  the  beach  we  sleep 
Together. 

SAPPHO 

What  dost  thou  for 
Thy  lover  ? 

THALASSA 

For  him  I  keep 
Food,  fire,  and  the  babe  and  boy. 

SAPPHO 

And  what  wilt  thou  do  to  make 
His  labour  and  name  to  grow 
Magnificent  over  the  isles  ? 

THALASSA 

[Returns  Sappho's  enkindled  gaze  with  proud  serenity.] 
More  bairns  will  I  bear  to  him. 

SAPPHO 

And  they  —  when  the  frost  of  death 
Hath  gathered  both  thee  and  him  — 
Shall  they  too  but  live  —  to  live  ? 
Be  born  still  to  bear  again 
Procreative  things  that  die  ? 

PHAON 

[Having  listened,  vaguely  fearful,  moves  now  between  the  two 
women,  and  draws  Thalassa,  protectingly.~\ 

Cease,  cease  !  — Thalassa,  come  with  me.    Her  eyes ! 
They  burn  us  through  the  net.     O  come  away  ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  113 

THALASSA 

'As  she  goes  with  Phaon,  raises  her  arm  with  the  bracelet, 
for  Sappho  to  see.~\ 

This  gold  will  I  give  the  bairn 

To  play  with.  —  Keep  thou  the  dove. 

PHAON 

[  With  a  gesture  of  yearning  toward  Sappho,  departs  in  the 
falling  twilight,  his  voice  broken  with  pain.~\ 

Thalassa ! 

[Sappho,  through  the  net,  watching  them  together  till  they 
disappear,  seizes  then  the  net  before  her  and,  tearing  it 
down,  rends  once  the  meshes  with  her  handsl\ 

SAPPHO 

Aphrodite !     Aphrodite ! 
Now,  now  thy  net  is  torn,  thy  bird  is  free. 

\Springing  to  the  steps,  she  lifts  the  sea-dove  and  unwinds 
from  about  it  the  filmy  scarf. ~\ 

O  darling  bird,  which  art  my  beating  soul, 
That  Phaon  captured  on  these  wild  sea-cliffs, 
Mount  up,  mount  up  !  and  nestle  with  thy  wings 
Against  the  burning  chlamys  of  heaven's  queen 
There  where  her  breast  heaves  highest.  —  Say  to  her : 
"  Lady  of  love,  almighty  !     This  is  Sappho  — 
Her  spirit  —  whom  thou  madest  of  that  fire 
Which  sleeps  in  Phaon's  eyes.     Lo,  I  am  his, 
And  I  will  make  him  mine  !"  —  This  say  to  her, 
My  heart's  bird,  and  beseech  her,  if  she  hears 


114  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

My  prayer,  and  sanctioneth  my  passionate 
Resolve,  that  she  will  speed  thee  back  to  me 
In  token  she  approves.  —  Yet  should  she  not, 
Here  do  I  choose,  in  spite  of  sea  and  heaven, 
The  sanction  of  myself. 

[Releasing  the  sea-dove.~\ 

Good-by,  sweet  bird  ! 

[On  the  steps,  from  her  uplifted  hand,  she  looses  the  bird, 
which  takes  wing  into  the  sunset.  Immediately  Sappho 
springs  up  the  steps  and  goes  to  the  cliff's  edge.  There, 
standing  against  the  subdued  reflections  of  the  ^Egean, 
she  follows  the  dove V  far  flight  with  her  eyes.~\ 

[Rising,  the  Herculaneum  curtain  shuts  off  the  scene.~\ 


Here  follows  the  Pantomime  of  the  First  Interlude. 
Vide  Appendix. 


ACT  II 


ACT  II 

Early  night  of  the  same  day.  The  temple  and  sea  gleam 
vaguely  under  the  moon.  Tapers  are  burning  beneath 
the  outstretched  stone  wings  of  the  dove  on  Aphro 
dite's  shrine,  and  the  urn  of  Poseidon  glows  with 
fire  —  a  signal  light  to  mariners.  Swinging  lamps 
twinkle  in  the  olive  grove.  On  the  edge  of  the  grove, 
alone,  stands  Pittacus  in  reverie.  From  all  sides  out 
of  the  night,  arise  the  soft  string-sounds  of  sweet  instru 
ments  and  the  music  of  far  laughter.  In  the  near 
distance  (from  the  left)  the  voice  of  Alcceus  sings. 

ALGOUS 
Wine,  dear  child,  and  truth 

And  youth  and  these  lips  of  thine ! 
Wine  from  the  crocus'  cup 

And  truth  from  the  poppy's  heart 

Drink  to  me 
While  I  think  of  thee  ! 
Think  of  me 
While  I  drink,  drink 

Wine  and  youth 
And  truth  from  these  lips  of  thine. 

PITTACUS 

[Coming  slowly  down  the  steps."] 

Tis  silent  now  —  that  song;  but  still  the  silver  shores 
Are  drench'd  with  dews  of  it ;  the  olive  groves  —  the 

air, 

117 


Il8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

The  ever-rhythmic  waters  —  are  in  love.     Of  all 

I  only  and  the  white  stars  are  not  amorous. 

No  more  the  wine  of  thee,  dear  child :     the  truth  I 

drink ! 

And  drinking  that,  I  pass  from  madness  into  peace : 
Peace  now,  yet  should  I  look  once  more  into  her  eyes, 
What  then  ? 

[Enter  from  the  grove  a  Figure,  clad  in  the  cloak  of  a  Greek 
soldier,  wearing  a  helmet  with  long  horse-hair  plume, 
a  gold  breastplate,  and  greaves  of  gold.'} 

I 

THE  FIGURE 
[Approaching  Pittacus.~\ 
'  Under  these  olives,'  lord  of  Mitylene ! 

PITTACUS 
\_Starting.~] 
Her  brother,  Larichus. 

[Turning  toward  the  Figure,  pauses  bewildered^ 
Not  Sappho  —  you ! 

SAPPHO 

'  Under  these  olives '  —  was  it  not  the  place  ? 
Well  met,  O  Pittacus ! 


PITTACUS 
In  such  a  garb  — 


THE  TRAGEDY  1 19 

SAPPHO 

The  wise  Athene  walked  at  Ilium 
Among  the  tetchy  Greeks.     The  arbiter 
Of  men  needs  govern  as  a  man.  —  Where  is 
Your  tyrant's  staff  ? 


PITTACUS 

[Drawing  back.~\ 

Keep  from  me,  lest  again 
I  lose  the  tranquil  planet  of  my  peace. 
Let  me  depart  from  you. 

SAPPHO 

/  will  depart 
When  you  have  given  me  what  I  come  to  claim. 

PITTACUS 

All  but  my  quiet  soul. 

SAPPHO 

That  girdle  of  keys. 

PITTACUS 

[Peeling  at  his  side^\ 
They  are  the  city  keys. 


120  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Which  one  of  them 
Unlocks  the  yoke-rings  of  the  public  slaves  ? 

[Pittacus  loosens  one.~\ 
Give  me  that  one. 

[Reaching,  snatches  it  from  him  with  a  glad  sigh.~\ 

Now  keep  your  quiet  soul, 
Philosopher :  I  will  no  more  affray 
Your  sleep  with  my  alarms. 

[She  turns,  and  is  leaving.] 

PITTACUS 
[Unmanned  by  her  presence, ,] 

Yet  do  not  go ! 

SAPPHO 

Peace !     You  have  put  away  with  me  the  quest 
Of  happiness.     Yours  is  the  living  pall, 
The  aloof  and  frozen  place  of  listeners 
And  lookers-on  at  life.     But  mine  —  ah  !  mine 
The  fount  of  life  itself,  the  burning  spring 
Pierian  !  —  I  pity  you.     Farewell ! 
[Exit,  left.-] 

PITTACUS 

Farewell,  thou  burning  one  and  beautiful ! 
I  pity  thee,  for  thou  must  live  to  quench 
With  thine  own  tears  thine  elemental  fire. 
[Enter  Phaon,  right.'] 


THE  TRAGEDY  I2i 

PHAON 

[  Groping  toward  the  altar,  moans  low.~\ 
Poseidon !     O  Poseidon ! 

PITTACUS 

Still  this  slave 
That  rises  in  my  path  to  baffle  me ! 

PHAON 
Ah  —  ah,  Poseidon ! 

PITTACUS 
\_Drawing  near.~\ 
Slave ! 

PHAON 
[Pausing,  speaks  confidingly.'} 

Are  you  the  god  ? 

PITTACUS 
\_Half  bitterly^ 

The  god !     I  have  deserved  thy  question,  slave. 
Before,  thy  silence  stung  me  —  now  thy  words. 

PHAON 

Lord,  lift  it  from  me ;  take  it  from  my  eyes ! 
Why  have  you  cast  its  dimness  over  me  ? 

PITTACUS 

What  wouldst  thou  have  me  lift  ? 


X 


122  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

It  closes  down. 
Stretch  forth  your  arm  and  draw  it  back  to  you. 


PITTACUS 

Look  near  :  canst  thou  not  see  me  ? 


PHAON 

None  I  see 

The  shore  is  gone  !     It  shutteth  out  the  stars, 
Thicker  and  colder ! 


PITTACUS 

What  ? 


PHAON 

The  fog !     The  fog ! 

It  shuts  between  us,  and  her  far  white  face 
Wanes  toward  me  like  the  lady  in  the  moon, 
And  now  between  the  meshes  I  can  see, 
Like  shrines,  her  two  eyes  burning. 


PITTACUS 

Even  this  one ! 

,  Is  there  none  then  too  low  ?  no  piece  of  clay 
But  passion  there  will  make  its  chrysalis 
And  kindle  the  worm  wings  ?     Rest,  thou  poor  churl ! 

[Exit  slowly,  right^\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  12$ 

PHAON 
[Descending  the  steps  supplicatingly^\ 

Lord,  be  not  angry  !     Take  it  from  before 
My  face,  and  show  me  hers  !    Sweep  it  away, 
And  with  your  great  hand  show  again  the  stars. 

[Enter  from  the  grove  Thalassa.  Slung  at  her  back,  is  a 
swaddled  babe.  At  her  side  is  a  little  boy  of  some  four 
or  five  years  —  his  sturdy,  sun-tanned  body  naked,  save 
for  wreathings  of  sea-weed  and  kelp,  partly  concealing 
his  torse  and  intertangling  the  oozy  locks  of  his  long 
hair.  The  child  carries  a  tortoise"*  shell,  with  which  — 
sitting  upon  the  ground —  he  plays.  Pausing  at  the 
top  of  the  steps,  Thalassa  unbinds  the  infant  from  her 
back  and  takes  it  in  her  arms.~] 

THALASSA 
Io,  my  bairn  !  wakest  thou  ? 
Aye  drowseth  thy  bonny  head 
Low  !  burneth  thy  little  cheek 
That  erst  it  was  cold  as  ice. 
Io,  my  bairn !  droop  thee  not 
Away  from  thy  mother's  eyes ; 
Look  up  in  them. 

[Descending  the  steps,  Thalassa  reaches  the  swaddled  child 
toivard  Phaon,  who  stands  by  the  altar,  his  face  from 
hers,  oblivious  —  staring  ahead  of  him.~] 

Phaon,  take 
The  bairn  to  thee  :  might  it  smile 
To  lie  in  its  father's  arm 
And  feel  it  strong.  —  Phaon ! 


124 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 


[Turning  about  vaguely  toward  her,  Phaon  takes  the  out- 
reached  burden  in  his  arms  and  holds  it,  rigid.  Thalassa 
then,  bending  over,  takes  from  her  arm  Sappho's  bracelet 
and  holds  it  dangling  over  the  infant] 

So! 
Now  shall  my  bairnling  look  up  and  see  what  the 

Lady  of  Lesbos 
Hath  given  its  father  —  a  little  gold  dolphin  instead 

of  the  sea-dove 
For  bairnling  to  hold  in  its  fingers  and  play  with  and 

make  it  grow  strong.     Look ! 
Its  eyes  are  the  green  little  stones  that  burn  in  the 

shallows  at  low-tide, 
And  it  bringeth  a  pearl  in  its  mouth  to  please  thee; 

aha  !   glint  thine  eye  now 
And  look  where  the  scales  of  it  shine  and  shine  in  my 

bairnling's  moon-beam, 
And  it  hath  a  slippery  silvery  tail  like  a  sea-maiden's. 

[Bending  over  closer.] 
Phaon  ! 

It  waketh  not.  Speak  to  it  once !  It  sleepeth  aye 
as  in  fire. 

[Snatching  the  babe  from  Phaorfs  arm  and  nestling  it,  pas 
sionate,  she  drops  the  bracelet  on  the  ground.] 

A  curse  on  the  bright  dark  Lady  of  Lesbos  !     A  curse 

on  her  shining 
Arm-ring !     Ah,  naught  it  availeth  the  fever.     Go ! 

Go  and  seek  thou 
A  victim  and  kill  it.     The  wave-god  is  angry !    worse 

is  the  bairn.  —  Go ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  12$ 

But  seek  first  the  house  of  Sappho  and  give  her  the 
gold  thing  back.  —  Go  ! 

\Phaon  moves  a  dazed  step,  then  remains  motionless.  Turn 
ing  away,  Thalassa,  her  face  bent  near  to  the  babe  in 
her  arms,  goes  slowly  up  the  steps.~\ 

lo,  my  bairn  !     Come  away. 

Now  under  the  holy  beam 

Thy  mother  will  pray  for  thee 

That  soon  thou  shalt  wake  and  smile. 

lo,  my  bairn !  droop  thee  not 

Away  from  thy  mother's  heart. 

\She  passes  into  the  temple.  The  little  boy  is  about  to  follow, 
but,  seeing  the  bracelet  at  Phaorfs  feet,  he  runs  back,  and 
lifts  it  in  his  hand  to  his  father, .] 


THE  CHILD 
Babbo ! 

,  PHAON 

Thy  voice  it  is  !     Bion,  thy  face  ! 
Methought  it  had  been  hers  till  thy  young  eyes 
Shone  through  her  misty  hair :  and  now  that  mist 
Fades  in  the  moon  away. 

\_Smiling  at  the  child,  he  sits  on  the  altar  stefs  and  takes  him 
in  his  arms.'] 

How  creptst  thou  here, 

Sand-snail  ?     Aye  stickest  to  thy  Babbo's  side 
Like  a  spar  of  drift-wood.     Ever  at  evening 
When  roweth  Babbo  weary  to  the  beach, 
Thou  springest  from  the  kelp,  climbest  his  knees, 


126  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOW 


Showest  thy  day's  sport.     Tighter,  tighter,  bairn, 

Thine  arms  about  me  !     Keep  thy  father  fast.  — 

Thou  little  piece  of  me,  grow  not  so  tall ! 

Taller  than  the  iris-reeds  that  water-maids 

Make  into  pipes  for  Pan  to  play  upon. 

Soon  too  shalt  thou  be  ripe  for  him  to  play. 

Nay,  whither  now  ?     What  new  sport  bringest  here 

To  show  me  ?  —  Tortoise  !     A  young  turtle's  shell  : 

And   was   thine   own    catch  ?      Flung    him   on   the 

back ! 

Brave  kill !  —  What  shineth  in  thy  fingers  there  ? 
Show  me  what  'tis. 

[The  Child  lifts  to  him  again  the  dolphin-bracelet  of  Sappho. 
Phaon,  staring  at  it,  starts  to  his  feet  with  his  former 
gesture  of  passionate  groping.'] 

Poseidon !     Ah,  Poseidon  ! 
yk^Once    more,    once    more,    why   blurrest    thou    the 

world ! 

Lift  it  away !     Thy  mist  is  over  all. 
Show  me  the  path  to  her. 

[  With  wondering  eyes,  the  Child  takes  Phaon's  hand  as  if  to 

lead.'] 

'Tis  bitter  cold, 

And  is  thy  hand  so  small  and  warm  ?     Lead  on  — 

[Slowly  the  Child  leads  his  father  up  the  steps  toward  the 
colonnade] 

'Tis  ticklish  walking  on  the  wet  weed-slime 

And  naught  but  cloud   to    lean    on —      Lead   the 

way. 
Her  house  is  yonder  where  the  breakers  are. 


THE  TRAGEDY  127 

\Reentering  with  the  infant  from  the  temple,  Thalassa  steps 
forward  between  the  first  and  second  pillars.  There, 
taking  the  bracelet  from  the  boy's  hand,  she  draws  him 
with  her  away  from  his  father  and  returns  to  the 
temple  door.~] 

THALASSA 

This  gold  will  /  give  to  her 
Back.     Go  thou  to  Sappho's  gate 
And  ask  of  what  hour  to-night 
She  cometh  to  the  temple.     We 
Shall  wait  thee  here.     Come  to  us  ! 

[She  goes  into  the  temple  with  the  children.  Phaon  —  his 
face  lifted,  his  hand  feeling  before  him  —  passes  slowly 
off  through  the  colonnade.~\ 

PHAON 
Poseidon,  —  thy  hand  again  ! 


[The  voice  of  Alcaus  calls  outside  in  the  olive-grove.  ~\ 

ALCvEUS 

Boy  !  —  lacchus  !  —  Boy  ! 

[Enter  Alcceus,  accompanied  by  an  Ethiopian  slave  boy, 
and  followed  by  Sappho,  disguised  as  before,  now 
carrying  a  spear.  Alc&us,  wreathed  with  grape  leaves, 
is  adorned  fantastically  as  a  Bacchanalian.  The  slave, 
likewise  draped  with  vines,  bears  upon  his  head  and 
shoulders  a  bulging  wine-sack  made  of  a  skin.  This 
(sinking  upon  one  knee)  he  supports  thus  as  upon  a 
salver  at  Ale  ecus'  side,  and  lifts  to  him,  from  beneath  it, 
a  shallow,  black-figured  drinking  cup.~\ 


128  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALOEUS 

Here,  here,  thou  sack-stool !     Down, 
And  hold  the  pigskin  for  the  bridegroom.     Wait ! 

[Addressing  the  cloaked  figure  of  Sappho] 
Hail,  Larichus  !  hail,  bridegroom  home  again ! 
To  Dionysus  I  thy  welcome  pour.  — 

The  cup !  — 

[Filling  it  from  the  sack.] 

I  charge  thee,  bird  from  Lydia, 
When  Atthis  keeps  thy  house  in  Lesbos,  plant 
No  other  tree  before  the  vine !     And  so 
Sleep   long    and  make  your    nest  in  grape-leaves. 
Drink ! 

And  so  for  song : 

{Singing] 

Wine,  dear  child,  and  truth 

And  youth  and  these  lips  — 

SAPPHO 

[Turning from  the  cup] 
No  wine  for  me. 

ALCEUS 

No  bride  for  Larichus ! 

For  what  is  love  but  grape-juice  ?  brides,  but  grapes  ? 
And  lovers  —  wine-skins  !     Look  you  on  this  sack 
My  caryatid  here  is  holding — This 
Whilome  was  pig  and  grunted  in  the  bog 
For  water-nuts  and  mire :  a  sow's  first-born 
With  bristles,  Hyacinthus  of  the  herd ! 

[Pouring  from  the  sack  and  drinking.  ] 


THE  TRAGEDY  129 

Behold  him  now  —  a  vessel  for  us  gods, 
Swelling  with  Cyprian  nectar.     O  translation  ! 
Yet  such  a  pig  was  Pittacus,  who  now 
Swelleth  with  love  of  Sappho. — 

[Drinking.] 

Nay,  but  we  — 

Before  we  fell  in  love,  were  we  not  swine 
Compared  to  this  we  are  ? 

[Patting  the  wine-sack] 

I  say,  for  one, 

The  Arcadians  crunched  acorns  and  no  slander 
To  them  ;  and  as  for  me  — 

[Singing.'] 

0  Ajax  was  a  king,  not  I ! 

1  fell  by  the  kiss  of  the  Cyprus-born  — 
And  though  Hebrus  be  the  most  plentiful  of  rivers 
yet  'tis  said :  from  nothing, 

[Inverting  his  empty  cup] 
nothing  cometh.     More,  boy ! 

SAPPHO 

Where's  Atthis  ? 

ALGOUS 

Where's  thy  sister  ?    Where's  the  song-dove  ? 
Where's  Sappho  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Starting] 
You've  not  answered  me. 


130  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALQEUS 

All's  one ! 

I  say,  there  lives  a  kind  of  four-wing' d  Muse, 
Quadruple-eyed  and  double-filleted, 
Called  indiscriminately  Sappho  —  Atthis ; 
Find  one,  find  both  ;  for  they  be  always  arm 
And  neck  together.     Nay,  but  Larichus, 
Patience  and  wait!     As  I  am  drunk,  henceforth 
\     I  am  thy  brother :    Sappho  loveth  me. 

SAPPHO 
Since  when  ? 

ALC/EUS 

By  Heracles,  I  know  not :  here 
To-day  upon  this  ground,  she  swooned  all  pale 
Because  another  loved  me  ;  and  she  bade 
K    Me  meet  her  here  to-night.  —  Good  lad,  thy  hand 
And  blessing ! 

\_Sappho  draws  slightly  away."] 
What! 

SAPPHO 

I  wish  you  joy  of  her. 

ALOEUS 
And  not  thy  hand  upon  it? 

SAPPHO 

To  be  honest, 
I  cannot  deem  you  happy. 


THE  TRAGEDY  131 

ALC^EUS 

With  thy  sister ! 

SAPPHO 
These  sisters  are  not  all  they  seem  to  be. 

ALCEUS 
But  Sappho ! 

SAPPHO 

I  perhaps  know  her  too  well. 

ALGOUS 
And  doubt  she  loves  me  ? 

SAPPHO 

Nay,  far  otherwise. 
[  doubt  if  ever  she  saw  form  of  man, 
Or  maiden  either,  whom  —  being  beautiful  — 
She  hath  not  loved. 

ALGOUS 
But  not  with  passion  — 


SAPPHO 

All 

That  breathes  to  her  is  passion  ;  love  itself 
All-passionate. 


132  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 

Thou  goadest  me  with  thorns.  — 
This  evening  —  Nay,  why  should  I  tell  thee  this  ? 
And  yet  I  will :  —  At  sunset,  here  I  saw 
Thy  sister  speaking  with  a  public  slave. 

SAPPHO 

[  Withdrawing^ 
Ah! 

ALGOUS 

If  I  thought  —  but  I  will  tell  thee  more. 
Here  hung  a  net  suspended,  and  they  stood 
Together,  speaking  low — I  watched  them  yonder. 
The  slave  was  mending.     Somehow  he  had  got 
One  of  his  hands  entangled  in  the  mesh, 
And  she  —  I  could  not  plainly  watch  her  through 
The  net  —  methought  she  peered  into  his  face. 


SAPPHO 

Ah! 

ALGOUS 

So  I  left  them. 


No  more  ? 


SAPPHO 

Did  you  stay  to  see 


ALGOUS 

There  was  one  with  me. 


THE  TRAGEDY 


133 


SAPPHO 
[Quickly.'] 


Who? 


ALGOUS 

No  matter. 

But  him  —  that  slave !    Sappho  to  speak  with  him 
On  the  temple  steps !  —  The  thought  hath  maddened 

me. 

Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Dost  thou  deem  it  nothing 
That  she  should  stoop  to  him  ? 


SAPPHO 


To  him. 


She  could  not  stoop 


ALGOUS 

By  heaven  !     I'd  have  his  vermin  heart 
Upon  a  spit  and  roast  it  —  were  it  so  ; 
But  I  am  drunk  to  think  it.  —  Boy,  I  pray  you 
When  next  you  meet  your  sister,  say  no  word 
Of  what  I  saw ;  but  tactfully  you  might 
Whisper  some  praises  of  me.     Wait  a  little, 
I'll  run  and  find  her. 

\_To  the  wine-slave. .] 

Come! 
[  Calling  back.~\ 

And  Atthis  too  ! 
I'll  tell  her  thou  art  waiting  here  to  clasp 
Her  neck  with  Lydian  pearls.    Ho  bride  and  groom 


134  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

[Nabbing  the  slave-boy  by  the  ear,   he   departs  with  him, 
singing.'] 

Fetch  me  a  Teian 

Goblet  of  gold  ! 
Life  is  a  cubit, 

Love  is  a  span. 


SAPPHO 
[After  a  pause.] 

Soon  shall  the  moon  on  the  waters 
Sleep,  and  the  Pleiades  ;  midnight 
Come  and  the  darkness  be  empty, 
I  in  the  silence  —  be  waiting. 
Phaon  !    Phaon  !  —  where  must  I 
Seek  thee  ?     Send  me  thine  omen  ! 
[Remotely  from    the   grove    sounds   the   voice    of  Alcaus, 

singing.] 

ALGOUS 
Love  me,  drink  with  me,  bloom  with  me,  die,  love  ! 

Garlands  for  me  are  thine. 
Mad  when  I  am,  share  thou  of  my  madness, 

Wise,  be  thou  wise  with  me. 

[From  between  the  temple-  tapes  tries  appears  Bion,  the  child. 
Running  to  the  grove,  he  lifts  from  the  ground  a  broken 
olive-bough,  with  lithe  green  shoots.  These  he  strips  of 
their  leaves  and  twines,  snake-like,  round  the  main  stem, 
which  he  flourishes  blithely  as  a  staff.  Discovering  then 
the  tortoise-shell  which  lies  near  the  steps,  he  runs  to 
pick  it  up] 


THE  TRAGEDY  135 

SAPPHO 

[  Watching  him.~\ 
At  play  —  a  luck-child  !     Here's  my  happy  omen. 

[Taking  the  shell,  Bion  is  about  to  return  to  the  temple,  when, 
seeing  the  cloaked  Figure,  he  pauses  and  stares ^\ 

SAPPHO 

Well,  water-elf  ?     Upon  what  dolphin's  back 
Or  oily  bladder  rodest  thou  here  to  land? 
Why  dost  thou  pierce  me  with  those  sea-blue  eyes, 
As  though  they  saw  me  in  as  guileless  state 
As  thy  small  body  is?     Dost  thou  perchance 
See  through  this  manly  corselet  and  suspect 
This  strutting  Menelaus,  that  he  wears 
Within,  a  heart  more  coward-womanly 
Than  Paris  ?     Stare  not  so,  but  answer  me. 
Ah,  now  I  know  thou  art  a  water-boy, 
For  wave-sprites  all  are  dumb  to  mortals,  speak 
Only  to  mermaids  and  to  weedy  Triton, 
Their  father.    Come,  what  hast  thou  there  ? 

[The  boy  holds  out  the  tortoise-shell  and  as,  taking  it,  Sappho 
sits  upon  the  altar  steps  (at  the  right),  the  child  comes 
and  stands  near.} 

A  shell ! 

A  turtle's  house  ! — and  once  upon  a  time  — 
Sprite,  wilt  thou  hear  a  story  ? 

[The  child  nestles  close.} 

Long  ago 

There  lived  another  turtle,  and  he  died 
And  left  his  shell-house  empty  by  the  waves, 


136  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

And  there  a  goddess  bore  a  little  boy 

Named  Hermes,  and  when  he  was  four  hours  old 

He  was  as  tall  as  thou  art, 

[Playfully  twitching  his  branch  of  'olive. ,] 
Nay,  methinks 

By  thy  caduceus,  boy,  thou  should st  be  he, 
And  I  that  goddess.  —  Play,  then  !     So  he  walked 
Beside  the  waves  and  found  the  empty  shell, 
(Like  this)  and  took  a  golden  thorn  — 

[Taking from  under  the  helmet  a  hair-pin  of  gold ^\ 

like  this, 
And  turned  and  turned  the  thorn  —  like  this  —  and 

bored 

Nine  holes  in  either  side,  and  drew  through  them 
Nine  strings  — 

[Lifting  the  lyre  which  Alcaus  left  behind  on  the  ground.'] 
like  these,  and  so  he  made  the  shell 
To  sing  [Striking  the  lyre.} 

like  this,  and  sitting  in  the  spray 
He  sang  with  it  a  song  —  a  song  like  this  :  — 

[Singing} 
Hollow  shell,  horny  shell, 

Wake  from  slumber. 
Long  —  too  long  —  hast  thou  lain 
Deaf  and  silent. 

Where  the  pulse  blooms  in  gold  — 

Moon-  and  sun-rise  — 
Thou  didst  creep  slow  and  dumb, 

Seeing  nothing. 


THE  TRAGEDY  137 

Yet  above  thee  gleamed  and  swung 

Star  and  swallow, 
And  around  thee,  lost  in  song, 

Lovers  mingled. 

Horny  shell,  hear'st  thou  not 

What  I  murmur  ? 
Wake  !  my  breath  is  on  thee  warm. 

Wake !  I  touch  thee. 
\Throwing  away  the  lyre,  Sappho  starts  up,  and  clasping 

the  child  close,  speaks  passionately."] 
Ah,  little  Hermes,  pray  for  me !     Thou  only 
Whose  dumb  child-cry  the  immortals  hearken,  go 
And  kneel  to  thy  grandsire,  the  great  Poseidon, 
And  tell  him  thou  didst  meet  with  a  bright  being, 
Nor  man  nor  woman,  but  a  spirit  both, 
That  bade  thee  intercede  for  him  —  for  her, 
That  all  the  wild  desire  of  this  wild  heart 
May  be  to-night  fulfilled.     Pray  him,  through  you, 
To  yield  my  love  to  me.     Run,  Hermes !  —  run  ! 
[The  Child,  with  eyes  of  wonder,  springs  up  the  steps  toward 
the  temple.    On  the  way,  seeing  the  lyre  lying  where  it 
has  been  thrown,  he  drops  the  tortoise-shell  and,  taking 
with  him  the  lyre,  runs  into  the  temple.     This  Sappho, 
having  turned  away  introspectively,  does  not  perceive. 
From  the  olives  now  the  voice  of  Atthis  calls.  —  Enter 
ing,  she  rushes  forward  with  outstretched  arms.] 

ATTHIS 
Larichus  —  Welcome  home,  my  Larichus  ! 

[Shrinking  back.] 
Ah  me,  what  are  you  ? 


138  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
[With  a  smile.} 

Am  I,  then,  so  changed  ? 

ATTHIS 

v/  Sappho  !  but  thou  art  cruel.     Where's  thy  brother  ? 
Alcaeus  said  he  waited  for  me  here. 


SAPPHO 

Myself  am  all  thy  lovers  that  are  here. 
Why  do  you  sob  ? 

ATTHIS 

{Throwing  herself  on  the  marble  bench.] 
He  never  will  return. 

SAPPHO 

[Leaning  over  her.] 

I  loved  thee,  Atthis,  long  and  long  ago, 
Even  when  thou  wert  a  slight  and  graceless  child, 
And  should  I  let  this  soldier-brother  come 
And  steal  thee  now  away  ? 

ATTHIS 

He  does  not  come. 

Why  have  you  done  this  to  me  ?     Why  are  you 
Clad  in  his  armour  ?     Why  have  you  deceived 
Alcaeus,  and  now  me  ? 
[From  the  colonnade  Anactoria  enters,  in  moody  reveryJ] 


Toria ! 


THE  TRAGEDY 

SAPPHO 
[Indicates  her  to  Atthis.~] 

Come,  ask  of  her. 
[Going  toward  the  colonnade^ 

[Atthis  rises  slowly,  and  looks  after  herl\ 


139 


ANACTORIA 

[Starting  from  her  thoughts,  looks  in  amazement?^ 
Is  it  you  f 

SAPPHO 

Have  I  not  kept 


My  promise  well  ? 


ANACTORIA 

But  — 

SAPPHO 

He  hath  been  here. 


ANACTORIA 

SAPPHO 

Alcaeus  :  his  love-lesson  hath  begun. 
Did  I  not  tell  thee  I  would  teach  him  well  ? 
Leaving  me  now,  he's  gone  to  look  for  me, 
And  looking  for  his  love,  he  is  to  find 
You. 


He 


140  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ANACTORIA 

Me? 

SAPPHO 

There  in  the  temple  I  have  left 
My  violets.     Go  you  and  put  them  on 
And  come  again. 

[On  Anactorid's  face  slowly  there  dawns  a  light  of  passion 
ate  triumph  I\ 

ANACTORIA 

[Raising  her  clenched  hands.] 
Oh  !  this  is  wonderful ! 

[She  turns  and  goes  into  the  temple.     Atthis  comes  wonder- 
ingly  to  Sappho.'] 

ATTHIS 
And  is  it  for  her  sake  you  wear  this  garb  ? 

SAPPHO 

For  her  sake  ?     No  ;  not  all ;  nor  to  rebuke 

Alcseus,  all.     But  there  are  motives,  girl, 

To  guess  which  thou  wouldst  tremble,  for  thou  art 

What  thou  wert  born  — a  soft  bride  to  be  wooed, 

And  'Hymenaeon  !'  was  thy  cradle  song ; 

But  I  —  Listen  yonder  ! 

[Distantly  the  deep  voices  of  men  are  heard,  lifting  a  rude  and 
intermittent  chant,  which  soon  recurs  —  wild  and  low  — 
more  nearJ\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  141 

THE  VOICES 
Akoue,  Poseidon  ! 

SAPPHO 

Upward  from  the  shore 

The  men-slaves  and  the  beach-folk  now  are  bringing 
Their  offerings  here  to  the  sea-god,  for 
Fair  weather  on  the  morrow.  —  There  perhaps 
Among  them,  there  among  the  dark  sea-faces, 
Ruddy  with  wine  and  passion,  unaware 
My  lover  walks  —  a  dumb  and  dreamy  slave 
Yearning  for  liberation.     Therefore,  Atthis, 
I  have  put  on  this  garb,  that  as  a  man 
I  still  may  search  those  faces  of  the  night 
Till  I  shall  peer  within  that  bondman's  eyes 
And  set  his  spirit  free. 
\As  Atthis,  with  a  start  of  half  comprehension,  is  about  to 

speak.] 

Hush  ;  do  not  guess, 

But  go  now  with  thy  servant  to  my  house 
And  wait  for  Larichus.  —  Fear  not  for  me. 

\Atthis  kisses  Sappho's  hand  and  goes  in  awe."\ 
[Groups  of  sea-slaves  now  have  begun  to  enter  in  the  moon 
light  —  rough,  forbidding  presences  of  rude  physical 
power  and  superstition  ;  some  are  wrapped  in  cloaks, 
others  are  almost  naked,  their  sun-darkened  flesh 
branded  with  symbols  of  their  owners ;  all  are  bare 
headed  and  without  weapons.  Bringing  in  their  hands 
their  sea-offerings,  —  shells,  coral,  kelp,  and  other  simple 
tokens,  —  they  place  these  on  the  top  step  before  the  temple, 
and  moved  vaguely  —  now  some,  now  others  —  to  utter 


142  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

their  discontinuous  chant,  gather  upon  the  steps  and  before 
the  temple.  Thus,  for  a  minute  or  more,  there  transpires 
only  pantomime.  Upon  the  entrance  of  the  slaves,  Sappho 
at  first  turns  instinctively  away  from  them,  and  draws 
her  cloak  more  closely  about  her.  Yearningly,  however, 
she  turns  back  and  moves  among  them  — silent,  search 
ing.  Now  she  joins  a  group  of  three  that  are  drinking 
from  a  stone  wine-jar,  scans  them,  and  turns  elsewhere 
to  one  who  is  laying  his  gift  of  coral  before  the  altar  ; 
from  him  too  she  turns  and,  touching  a  stooping  form, 
peers  wistfully  an  instant  at  the  eyes  upraised  there  to 
hers,  then  moves  toward  other  forms  obscure  in  the 
shadows.'] 

THE  SEA-SLAVES 
lou,  Poseidon  / 

\At  this  cry  of  the  slaves,  the  tapestry  at  the  temple  door  parts, 
and  there  enters  —  clad  in  dark  purple  and  green  —  the 
PRIEST  OF  POSEIDON,  attended  by  two  Acolytes  (who 
gather  up  the  offerings}.  The  Priest  raises  his  long 
trident  staff,  at  which  the  slaves  fall  upon  their  faces, 
prostrating  themselves  with  their  low  cry.~\ 

THE  SEA-SLAVES 
Chair e,  Poseidon  ! 

\_Sappho  alone  remains  standing,  at  once  wistful  and  impe 
rious.     The  Priest  motions  toward  her  with  his  staff ,] 

SAPPHO 

Biddest  thou  me  bow  down,  O  Silent  One  ? 
Not  with  these  abject  children  of  the  earth, 
Nor  to  thy  god.  —  Not  to  thy  pitiless 
God  of  the  generations,  pain  and  death, 


THE  TRAGEDY 


143 


Whom  I  defy  !     This  day  did  I  release 

Out  of  his  clutch  a  dove  of  sacrifice 

Despite  of  him  ;  and  of  these  nameless  slaves 

Bow'd  to  his  yoke,  one  —  one  will  I  set  free 

And  lift  as  an  immortal  at  my  side 

This  night,  in  scorn  of  thee  and  thy  Poseidon. 

Put  back  thy  trident :  that  is  powerless 

To  sway  me,  for  unseen  the  deathless  birds 

Of  Aphrodite  ward  me  with  their  wings 

Inviolably  free,  and  passionate 

To  dare.     Thy  god  is  not  my  god  ;  thy  law 

Is  not  my  law. 

[Turning  from  the  temple  and  the  priest — who  remains  im 
passive,  majestically  mute  —  Sappho,  pursuing  her  search 
among  the  dark  forms,  passes  quickly  from  the  scene 
(right}. 

[As  she  goes,  one  of  the  prostrate  slaves  on  the  temple  steps, 
who  has  partly  raised  himself  dunng  her  speech, 
rises  now  alone  and  gazes  after  her.  It  is  Phaon. 
Standing  erect  among  the  bowed  forms  of  his  fellow- 
slaves,  he  moves  a  few  steps  toward  the  place  of  Sappho's 
departure,  and  pauses.  The  trident  of  the  Priest  touches 
his  shoulder,  but  he  does  not  feel  it.  The  other  slaves 
rise  menacingly  and,  muttering,  are  about  to  force  him 
prostrate  before  the  Priest,  when  the  latter  intervenes  and 
motions  them  away.  They  depart  slowly,  uttering  their 
chant ;  the  Priest  and  Acolytes  reenter  the  temple.  All 
this  Phaon  neither  heeds  nor  sees.  Left  alone,  he  stands 
gazing  still  where  Sappho  has  departed —  in  his  face  the 
struggle  of  an  awaking  consciousness. 
[  Outside  from  the  colonnade,  some  one  whistles.  The  sound 
is  repeated.  Phaon  turns  absently  and  looks  back.] 


144  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALCEUS 


Here,  water-dog  ! 
Stand  where  thou  art. 

[Entering^] 
Where  art  thou  skulking,  cur  ? 

PHAON 
\Bcnding.~\ 
What  would  you,  lord  ? 

ALOEUS 

What  makest  at  this  hour 
Here  by  the  holy  temple  ? 

PHAON 

Seeking,  lord. 

ALCEUS 

What,  charity  ?     A  meal  of  maggots  ?     Some 
Goat's  entrails  by  the  altar  ?     What  wast  seeking  ? 

PHAON 

{Slowly^ 
A  dream. 

ALCEUS 

[Bursting  info  shrill  laughter^ 
Ha  —  ha,  Apollo  !  my  Apollo  ! 
Behold  thy  Trojan  Kalchas  lives  again, 
Born  of  a  Lesbian  sea-bitch  !     Lo,  a  dog 


THE  TRAGEDY  145 

Hath  sniffed  thine  altar  and  become  a  seer 

And  prophet !     Come,  my  dream-seeker,  canst  read 

The  flight  of  birds?     Look  there  —  those   moonlit 

doves  — 
What  mean  their  dreamy  circlings  ?     Prophesy  1 


PHAON 

[Looking  over  the  dim.  sea,  where  for  a  moment  a  flutter  of 
doves  is  visible,  shrinks  back  supers  titiously.  ] 

Death. 

ALGOUS 
[His  shrill  derision  checked  by  a  sudden  awe.~\ 

Here's  enough  of  this.     I,  too,  am  seeking. 
The  lady  Sappho  spoke  with  thee  to-day  — 
Answer  me,  churl :  what  said  she  ? 


PHAON 
[Slowly  straightening  to  his  erect  stature.] 

She  will  tell. 

ALGEUS 

So  shalt  thou,  scavenger ; 

And  if  thou'd  'scape  the  knot-whip, 

Speak  quickly. 

PHAON 

I  have  spoken. 


146  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 
[About  to  burst  into  passion,  pauses  and  squints  maliciously] 

Oho,  an  avaricious 
Lick-bones ! 

[Taking  from  a  pouch,  hands  to  Phaon  a  coin] 

An  itching  mongrel ! 
Here,  hound;  here's  for  thy  mange. 
Speak ;  we'll  not  tell  the  lady. 

'   •       .  *    " ' 

\Phaon,  looking  from  the  coin  in  his  hand  to  Alc&us*  face, 
silently  tosses  the  coin  over  the  cliff.  Alcaus  starts 
passionately] 

Slave,  thou  shalt  have  the  rack 
For  this ;  I'll  have  thy  master 
Flay  thee. 

PHAON 

I  have  no  master. 
I  am  a  public  slave ; 
The  city  owns  me. 

ALGOUS 

[Seizing  the  spear  which  Sappho  has  left  behind,  strikes 
with  it  at  Phaon] 

Let 

The  city  burn  thy  carcass. 

PHAON 

[  Wresting  from  him  the  spear.] 
Lord,  you  have  drunk  too  deep. 


THE  TRAGEDY  147 


ALGOUS 
3oy —  lacchus  !     Ho,  boy!  here! 

\_Enter  the  Ethiopian  slave-boy '.] 
VI  y  guards  !  run  to  my  garden 
\nd  fetch  them  thither.  —  Run  ! 
[Exit  the  slave.'] 

3y  heaven,  it  grows  now  plainer 
Why  Sappho  hath  not  met  me : 
She  hath  prepared  a  feast 
3f  tidbits  for  a  sea-dog, 
\nd  keeps  her  chamber. 


PHAON 

She 
s  not  at  home. 


ALGOUS 

So  thou 
Eiast  sought  her  there ! 


PHAON 

I  left 
Lately  her  house. 

~_Reenter  Sappho,  now  without  her  helmet — her  dark  locks 
falling  about  her  breastplate  in  the  moonlight.  She 
stands  unobservedt  intense  t  watching  the  two.~\ 


148  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALQEUS 
'Twas  so,  then ! 
Her  brother  said  so.     Faugh ! 
Faugh !  how  the  mad  night  reeks  it ! 
A  slave !  —  O  Larichus, 
Thou  spakest  well:  These  sisters 
Are  not  all  that  they  seem ! 
But  she  —  the  Muse !  — to  turn 
Circe,  and  set  her  meshes 
To  catch  a  water-rat  — 
A  public,  prowling  slave ! 


PHAON 

No  more ! 

ALGOUS 

But  this  is  Lesbos, 
Where  all  are  lovers  !     This 
Will  sing  most  musically 
Set  to  the  lyre  :  how  Sappho, 
Enamour'd  of  the  sea-god, 
Invoked  the  slime,  to  yield 
As  substitute  — 

PHAON 

\_Approaching  near."] 
No  more ! 


ALCEUS 
A  wharf -rat  for  her  lover. 


THE  TRAGEDY  149 

PHAON 

Bursting  his  culminated  self-control,  strikes  with  clenched 
hand  Alc&us  to  the  ground,  where  he  lies  his  length, 
unconscious,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Ignoring  him  there, 
Phaon  lifts  his  face  with  an  exultant,  dreamy  smile, 
speaking  low.~\ 

Lord,  the  stars ! 

hy  stars  again  !  how  glorious  they  burn ! 


\t  last ! 


SAPPHO 
[  Coming forward. ,] 

PHAON 

\_Gazingin  her  face. ~\ 
Still  they  are  burning  there. 


SAPPHO 

At  last 

'hy  hand  is  lifted  and  thy  blow  is  fallen, 
.ook !  at  thy  feet  he  bows,  alive  and  prone 
rom  his  proud  pedestal :  this  lord  of  lords, 
la,  Aphrodite  !  in  this  man  of  men 
iow  I  have  triumphed ! 


PHAON 

Are  you  not  the  same 

hat  stood  amidst  us,  with  thy  helmet  plume, 
\nd  scorned  the  silent  god  ? 


ISO  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Wert  thou  so  near 
And  yet  I  found  thee  not  ? 

PHAON 

Your  spirit  found  me  ; 

Its  voice  awoke  me  'mongst  the  herded  slaves 
And  bade  me  rise  towards  you,  for  it  said  — 
'  One  —  one  will  I  set  free.' 


SAPPHO 

That  slave  is  freed ! 

There  lies  his  bondage  stricken  in  the  dust 
By  his  own  hand. 

PHAON 

[Bewildered.] 
My  hand  ? 


SAPPHO 

Was  it  not  thine 

That  felled  him  yonder  ?     Was  it  not  thy  soul 
That  to  his  mockery  cried  out  "  No  more  !  " 
And  smote  him  mute  ? 


PHAON 

Thou  sayest  it  was  I : 
Speak  on!  —  Even  so  thou  spakest  by  the  net. 


THE  TRAGEDY  151 

SAPPHO 
Canst  thou  then  name  me  ? 

PHAON 
Sappho. 

SAPPHO 

Hush ;  he  breathes 
Less  hard ;  come  hither. 

\_They  move  away  to  the  right.~\ 

All  the  waning  time 
Of  all  the  stars  have  I  kept  watch  for  thee. 

PHAON 

And  I  have  groped  in  darkness  —  toward  thine  eyes. 

SAPPHO 

Who  shall  constrain  Apollo  'neath  the  sea 
When  he  uplifts  his  glad  brow  from  the  fens 
Aspiring  to  inevitable  noon  ? 
Who  shall  constrain  Phaon  a  slave  ? 

PHAON 

Speak  still ! 

SAPPHO 

Out  of  thy  dim  fens  hath  thy  godhead  dawned 
Insufferably  fair.     O  Phaon,  that 
Which  thou  hast  struck  already  from  thy  soul 
I  loose  now  from  thy  body. 

\With  the  key  of  Pittacus,  Sappho  unfastens  the  bronze  yoke- 
ring  from  the  neck  of  Phaon,  and  takes  it  from  him  in 
her  hand.~\ 

Know  you  this  ? 


152  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 
My  name-ring  'tis. 

SAPPHO 
\Readsfrom  the  characters  in  the  metal.] 

'  Phaon  of  Lesbos  —  slave.' 

PHAON 
[Pressing  his  hand  to  his  throat.'] 

How  light !  — how  light  and  strange !     Methought  it 

was 
Even  myself,  a  part  of  me. 

SAPPHO 

Hear  how  it  falls  now  —  a  dead  thing 
Back  to  the  dust. 

[She  drops  the  bronze  ring,  which  falls  with  a  muffled  sound 
to  the  earth.  Watching  this,  Alcaus,  who  from  his 
swoon  has  awakened  and  listened  with  fierce  self-restraint, 
now,  unobserved,  crawls  on  the  ground  to  within  reach 
of  the  ring,  secures  it,  and  returns  silently ',  while  Sappho 
continues  speaking  to  Phaon.'] 

Never  shalt  thou,  cramped  again  in  thy  sea-sleep, 
Wake  at  its  twinge  in  thy  sinews ;  never  again  in  the 

noon-glare 
Feel  it  scorch  in  thy   flesh   familiar   shame,  nor  at 

bitter 
Sundown,  numbly,  in  winter,  lay  on  thy  drowsy  blood 

its 
Ache  long  accustomed. 


THE  TRAGEDY  153 

PHAON 

The  clutch   hath   loosened ;  the   fingers   of   bronze 

are 
Loosened. 

SAPPHO 

And  with  them  the  yoke  of  contumely, 
scorn  and  the  callous 
Scar  of  the  drift-wood. 


PHAON 

What  breath  filleth  my  body  with  fire  ? 
What  is  the  voice  of  this  cloud  that  speaketh  in  flame 
to  me  ? 


SAPPHO 

Hear  it! 
Phaon  of  Lesbos  is  dead. 


PHAON 

Ah! 

SAPPHO 

Phaon  of  Hellas  is  risen  ! 
Phaon   of  all   the  ^Eolian   isles  —  of   the  ages  that 

will  be 
Unto  the  Autumn  of  time :  Phaon,  the  freedman  of 

Sappho. 


154  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON* 

ALCEUS 

\Faintly  from  where  he  lies.'] 
Larichus ! 

[There  is  a  moment  of  silence,  without  motion.  Slowly  then 
Sappho  points  to  her  spear  on  the  ground,  speaking  to 
Phaon.~\ 

SAPPHO 

To  my  service,  bondslave :  bear 
My  spear  for  me. 

PHAON 

[Lifting  the  spear,  precedes  Sappho,  as  she  moves  to  go*~\ 
Forever ! 
[Exit  right.'] 

ALGOUS 
[Half  raising  himself. ,] 

Larichus ! 


Who  speaks  to  me  ? 


SAPPHO 
[Pausing.] 


ALGOUS 
[Rising.'] 

A  liar,  for  he  names 
You  Larichus :  a  liar  and  a  dupe 
Of  yours. 

SAPPHO 
Alcaeus,  you  have  listened  —  heard  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  155 

ALGOUS 

Laughter  from  high  Olympus  have  I  heard  : 
'  Sappho  the  Rat-catcher  hath  speared  her  quarry ! ' 
Cries  blithe  Terpsichore.  —  You  shall  not  go  ; 
You  shall  not,  till  you  hear  me. 

\Sappho,  who  has  started  away,  pauses  again  in  serene  con 
tempt,  and  looks  full  at  Alcaus.~\ 

SAPPHO 

Well  ? 

ALCEUS 

Forgive 

The  wine-god  for  my  words.     But  that  is  past 
And  I  am  bitter  earnest.  —  Men  are  born, 
Not  made ;  and  what  is  bred  is  bred  in  soul 
And  brain  more  deep  than  sinews. 

SAPPHO 

Well  ? 

ALGOUS 

A  slave 
Shall  always  be  a  slave.     No  yoke  of  bronze  r 

Cast  off  can  liberate  him. 

SAPPHO 

Yet  a  slave 

Could  bid  Alcaeus  bow  and  eat  the  earth 
Even  at  his  feet. 

ALGOUS 

Beware  !     I  love  you. 


156  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
Love  Phaon. 

ALGOUS 

He  — 

SAPPHO 


1  Can  I  constrain  a  god  ? 

Tether  him  ?     Clip  his  wings  ?     Say  come  or  go  f 
Love  is  a  voyager  '  —  or  hath  this  Love 
Changed,  since  you  scoffed  at  Anactoria  ? 

ALOEUS 

You  have  upraised  him,  not  himself;  and  he 
Shall  fall  more  basely  from  your  height. 

SAPPHO 

Oh,  I 
Am  sure  of  him  as  of  this  liberal  air 

I  breathe.       Caching  upward  her  arms.  ] 

This  will  not  ever  fail,  nor  Phaon. 

ALOEUS 

\Fiereely,  staying  her  as  she  goes  again^\ 
Keep  from  him  yet.     One  knowledge 
I  will  not  spare  you  now. 
Look  down  :  There  in  the  caverns 
Of  sea-weed  and  the  slime-ooze, 
The  tide  creatures  and  reptiles 
Seek  in  the  dark  their  mates 
And  spawn  their  generations. 


THE  TRAGEDY  157 


SAPPHO 

[Drawing  back^\ 
The  Spring  is  universal. 

ALGEUS 
Even  as  the  Autumn. 

[Pointing  below.~\ 

He 

Is  one  of  those.    His  mate 
And  brood  are  there.  —  Ha,  Sappho  ! 
You  did  not  know. 

SAPPHO 
[Dreamily.] 
I  knew. 

ALGOUS 
You  knew  that  Phaon  — 


SAPPHO 

Was  he  not  a  slave, 
And  now  —  no  more  ? 


ALCEUS 

Impossible !     Art  thou 
Sappho  of  Mitylene  ? 


SAPPHO 

Do  you  dream 

I  am  not  she  ?  or  have  you  never  known 
Sappho  ? 


158  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALCEUS 
You  are  gone  blind  with  passion. 


SAPPHO 

Blind ! 

Have  you  beheld  through  the  obscuring  world 
The  Beautiful  ?     There  comes  a  day,  Alcaeus, 
When  one  of  us,  that  for  a  million  years 
Have  gendered  in  the  sun,  looks  upward  in 
His  face,  and  in  the  features  there  discerns 
Our  own  divinity.     I  am  that  one ; 
And  so  the  stumbling  and  unconscious  ways 
Of  nature  are  no  longer  mine  :  her  currents, 
Self-foiled,  obstructed,  clogged,  I  sway  to  sure 
And  passionate  direction.     Thenceforth  I 
Am  pilgrim  and  not  pathway  :  destiny 
I  am,  no  more  the  clay  of  destiny. 


ALOEUS 
But  Phaon  — 

SAPPHO 

Have  you  felt  the  maker's  joy 
Who  out  of  clay  sculptures  Hyperion, 
Or  out  of  silence  shapes  heart-moving  song  ?  — 
That  is  my  joy  of  Phaon. 

ALGOUS 

You  are  fooled ; 
N    Yourself  are  Nature's  bondmaid. 


THE  TRAGEDY  159 

SAPPHO 

Little  minds 

Muddy  with  resolution.  —  Go  your  ways, 
Alcaeus,  for  I  go  now  to  my  lover  : 
Yea,  knowing  all  thy  knowledge  do  I  go, 
And  on  his  liberated  soul  I  stake 
My  hope  —  my  life. 

{Exit  right.'} 

ALCEUS 
[Springing  after  her,  then  pausing.] 

Sappho !  —  Ah,  Muse  of  Vengeance  ! 
A  medicine  —  a  medicine  for  this  ! 

{Lifting  in  his  hand  the  bronze  yoke,  he  reads. ~\ 
'  Phaon  of  Lesbos  —  slave.' 

{As  he  stands  thus  desperately  intent,  Anactoria  enters  from 
the  temple,  wearing  the  violet-wreath  of  Sappho.  She 
walks  direct  to  him  and  looks  silently  in  his  face,  with 
fierce  pride  and  yearning.  At  her  presence,  he  starts  and 
smiles  faintly '.] 

Her  violets! 

ANACTORIA 

She  sent  them  to  you  —  so. 

ALCAEUS 
{His  look  turning  back  from  her  to  the  yoke  of  bronze I\ 

Put  them  away 
From  you. 


160  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ANACTORIA 

To  one  who  hath  herself  been  put 
Away,  they  should  be  fitting. 

ALGOUS 
[  Watching  some  one  approach] 

Pittacus  ! 

\_Enter  in  meditation  Pittacus.  Alc&us  —  his  face  lighting 
with  sudden  exultation  —  turns  to  his  companion  with 
a  gesture  of  passionate  deference] 

Incomparable  Anactoria, 

Beloved !  all  those  damned  subtle  chains 

Of  Sappho  thou  hast  struck  away.     Once  more 

My  vows  and  I  are  thine.  —  Hail,  Pittacus  ! 

Your  boon  and  blessing  !     A  betrothal  boon 

On  us,  two  foolish  lovers  reconciled. 


ANACTORIA 
[Utterly  bewildered] 

PITTACUS 
You  and  Anactoria ! 


ALGOUS 

Will  you  deny  true  love  its  whims,  and  heap 
Embarrassment  on  her,  who  trembles  there  ? 
Enough  she  chooses  me,  your  rival  once 
And  now  your  craving  friend.      'Twas  you  who  said 
'  Forgiveness  better  is  than  punishment.' 
Therefore  a  boon,  to  prove  it ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  l6l 

PITTACUS 

What  have  I 
Would  please  you  ? 

ALC^EUS 

A  mere  nothing,  yet  my  heart 
Is  set  upon  it.     You,  my  lord,  are  Tyrant 
Of  Mitylene,  and  as  such  'tis  you 
Who  own  the  public  slaves.  —  A  lover's  whim, 
My  lord  !  —  You  will  remember  how  to-day 
You  struck  one  of  these  slaves  —  a  fellow  passing 
With  drift-wood. 

PITTACUS 
Yes. 

ALGOUS 

The  blame  was  mine.     I  can't 
Forget  his  face.     By  heaven,  I  will  requite 
That  fellow.     I  would  have  him  feel  to-night 
As  glad  as  I  am.     Sir  —  a  foolish  boon  ! 
Give  him  to  me  to  be  my  body-slave. 


ANACTORIA 
No,  no  I 


ALCEUS 

[Reaching  his  arm  toward  her.~\ 
Dear  IOVQ  ! 


1 62  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PITTACUS 

How  deep  is  wine —  and  truth ! 
This  spinning  world,  'tis  but  a  street-boy's  top, 
And  each  must  whip  his  own. 

[Passing  on.~\ 

The  slave  is  yours. 

ANACTORIA 
[Starting  after.] 
You  do  not  understand.  * 

ALGOUS 
[Staying  her.~\ 

'Tis  you,  sweet  girl, 
Who  have  not  guessed  my  purpose. 


ANACTORIA 
[Trembling] 


Tell  me. 


PITTACUS 
[From  the  colonnade.] 

Friends, 

If  you  shall  chance  to  meet  with  Sappho,  say 
That  Pittacus,  her  friend,  hath  sailed  for  Sparta. 
[Exit.] 

ANACTORIA 
[Feverishly] 
What  would  you  do  with  Phaon  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  163 

ALCEUS 
[Kissing  her  hand,  which  she  withdraws.'} 

Can't  you  guess  ? 

Love,  I  have  purchased  him  to  wait  on  you 
In  public,  when  the  girl-disciples  meet 
And  Sappho  leads  the  singing. 

ANACTORIA 
[  Gazing  at  him,  fascinated."] 

Horrible ! 

ALCEUS 

I  And  at  the  festivals,  amid  the  mirth 
And  fluttered  laughter  of  the  maidens,  Phaon 
Shall  bear  the  wine-sack  in,  and  pass  the  cakes 

I  To  Sappho,  where  she  sits  beside  you.  —  Come ; 
Vender's  my  black  knave  lacchus.     He  is  running 

jUp  from  my  garden.    We'll  go  meet  him. 

ANACTORIA 

[Following  impotent.'] 

Why? 

ALGOUS 

'Seizing  her  arm  and  raising  the  yoke-ring  in  his  other  hand.~\ 
ty  do  the  robins  fly  to  meet  the  spring  ? 

[Exeunt,  left.'] 

'Enter,  right,  Sappho  and  Phaon.  Each  has  a  hand  upon 
the  horizontal  spear  between  them,  and —  until  Sappho 
releases  —  they  speak  across  it,  lifting  or  lowering  it  in 
their  mutual  persuasion.] 


164  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOtf 

SAPPHO 


'Tis  mine. 


PHAON 

'Tis  mine. 


SAPPHO 

You  must  not  bear  it  more 


In  servitude. 


PHAON 
[Pleadingly.] 
In  service  now ! 


SAPPHO 

Even  now  ? 

Yielded  so  soon,  and  all  my  victory 
Reversed  ?  —  Nay,  be  it  mine  in  the  pursuit, 
For  I  have  been  your  huntress. 


PHAON 

Him  you  sought 

You  have  transformed.     O  Spirit,  Woman, 
Whatso  you  are,  the  war-cry  of  your  love 
Shouts  in  my  blood  and  tingles  in  my  brain 
For  action  and  for  freedom  and  for  life. 
Let  me  go  armed  to-night  —  your  conqueror. 
Into  my  hands  —  the  spear ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  165 

SAPPHO 

A  little  while 

Be  conquered  yet ;  a  little  breathing-space 
Fear  me  —  lest  I  shall  fear. 

PHAON 

For  what  ? 

SAPPHO  You  are 

Awakened  to  me  from  your  torpid  lair 
So  newly  masterful.     My  sudden  wound 
Of  liberty  hath  quickened  into  power 
Till  now,  imperious,  you  turn  at  bay 
And  wrestle  with  me. 

PHAON 
\_Smiling.~\ 
Yield,  then. 

SAPPHO  O  not  yet!     | 

Still  let  me  be  Diana  —  thou,  my  stag, 
And  through  the  April  uplands  of  the  world 
Flee  on,  on,  burning  backward  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  forever  kindled. 

PHAON 

Not  that  free 
And  lordly  animal  — 

\_Setting  his  foot  upon  Biorfs  tortoise-shell  beside  himJ] 

Look  there,  the  thing 
Which  you  awakened  into  ecstasy 
Of  being  —  me,  this  soul  you  gaze  upon. 


1 66  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
[Looking  from  the  shell  to  Phaorisfacel\ 

My  playmate  Hermes  —  grown  to  manhood  :  even 
So  might  he  glance  and  smile. 

PHAON 

Hermes  —  what's  he  \ 

SAPPHO 

A  little  child  I  love.  —  My  Phaon,  share 
This  weapon  with  me.     Make  not  of  me  yet 
A  woman  only.     Comrades  let  us  be, 
Or  children  bargaining  their  captaincy  — 
Agamemnon  and  his  brother,  hand  in  hand 
Against  the  Trojans. 

PHAON 

Childhood  never  trafficked 

Rapture  like  yours.     You  would  not  what  you  ask. 
[Lifting  high  the  spear,  to  which  Sappho's  hand  still  cfings.] 
Relinquish ! 

SAPPHO 
Not  —  playfellow  ? 

PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 
[Releases  her  grasp,  half  fearfully."] 

My  peer,  then ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  167 

PHAON 

No,  but  your  lord  and  lover !     Nevermore 

Shall  you  be  sovereign  of  your  maiden  will 

Or  single  in  your  fate.     Not  here  with  priest 

And  song,  but  with  a  spear,  you  have  betrothed  me. 

[Raising  the  weapon  above  him,  and  smiling  up  at  itl\ 

O  thou  my  spear,  thou  singest  in  my  hand. 

Thou  art  my  power  and  manhood.     Face  to  face 

Thou  pittest  me  in  combat  with  the  gods, 

And  raising  thee,  my  mind  is  raised  up 

Confronting  heaven,  till  from  those  clouds  of  fire 

This  slavish  world  grows  dim,  and  all  that  sways  it  — 

The  tyrant's  hate,  the  galley-master's  goad, 

The  sordid  trader's  dreams  of  avarice  — 

Dwindle  to  impotence.     Thine  is  the  war 

Which  shall  not  end  with  time  —  war  with  those  gods 

That  made  men's  misery. 

[To  Sappho. ~\ 

Beloved,  know 

What  you  have  quickened,  and  if  you  would  hear 
The  chant  of  life  my  lips  can  never  sing, 
Hark,  hark  now  to  the  hymning  of  this  steel ! 

[From  the  cliff  he  hurls  the  spear  into  the  night.~] 
There  flies  the  first :  ten  thousand  will  I  fling 
Because  of  you. 

SAPPHO 

[Going  to  his  arms."] 
My  lover ! 


168  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

[Then,  as  Phaon  embraces  her,  she  draws  back  wistful,  and 

A 


peers  in  the  moonlight  after  the  fallen  spear •.] 

If  its  dart, 


Falling,  should  strike  a  dove ! 


PHAON 

Turn  not  away. 

Where  are  your  thoughts  deep  wandered  in  the  night, 
Or  what,  love,  do  they  hear  ? 

[  Where  they  stand  silent, from  below  the  faint  roar  of  the  surf 
and  a  far  love-song  are  dreamily  distinguishable.^ 


SAPPHO 
\Turning  to  him.'] 

'  The  chant  of  life  ! ' 

Listen !     Your  lifted  spear  hath  been  a  signal 
For  that  world-music.     Even  as  the  master 
Lifteth  his  staff  and  all  the  temple-choir 

Raise  their  clear  chanting, 

So  hath  it  waked  those  wild-sweet  ocean  murmurs 
Yonder  —  Thou     hearest    with    me  !  —  where    the 

crickets 

Melt  with  that  human  lover  and  the  night-bird 
Over  Mitylene. 

PHAON 

These  are  but  thou ;   and  thoughts  of  thee  are  music. 


THE  TRAGEDY  169 


SAPPHO 

Nay,  but  look  also  !     On  the  glassy  sea-floor, 
White  as  the  moonbeam,  how  it  rises  ghostly 
There ! 

PHAON 
'Tis  a  fog-bank. 


SAPPHO 

Yes,  but  the  cloud  is  carved :  against  the  night  sky, 
Trembling,  u  ':fts  the  pearl  horns  of  a  lyre 
Curved,  and  a  hand  that  holds  a  mighty  plectron 
Plays  to  Orion ! 

PHAON 

Nay,  'tis  a  ship  I  see  :  her  prow  is  curving 
Up  from  the  cloudy  billows,  and  her  captain, 
Standing  upon  it,  where  the  bending  oarsmen 

Churn  the  bright  star-foam, 

Points  to  the  world  beneath  them  —  all  its  kingdoms 
Kindling  with  men,  and  to  his  one  companion 
Speaks  in  the  silence :     '  All  this  will  I  conquer, 
Sappho ! ' 

SAPPHO 
My  master  ! 
[Enter,  from  the  colonnade,  AnactoriaJ] 

ANACTORIA 

[  Wildly.'] 
He  is  coming  :  go  !    Go  in  the  temple  ! 


I/O  SAPPHO  AJVD  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Who 
Is  coming,  Toria  ? 

ANACTORIA 
Alcaeus !     Oh, 

Mad  was  I  for  his  love,  and  blind  with  dread 
Of  you.     I  did  not  dream  his  horrible 
Vengeance.     Go  in  the  temple. 


SAPPHO 

Why? 

ANACTORIA 

In  there 
Is  sanctuary.  ^To  Phaon^ 

He  can  take  thee  not 


PHAON 

Take  me f 

ANACTORIA 

Thou  art  his  body-slave,  his  flesh, 
His  chattels.     Pittacus  hath  granted  him 
Thee  and  thy  freedom.     He  is  coming  now 
To  seize  thee. 

PHAON 

[As  Sappho,  with  a  cry,  goes  to  him.~\ 
I  will  greet  him. 


THE  TRAGEDY  171 

ANACTORIA 

Nay,  he  brings 
His  guards  —  two  score  of  spearmen. 

SAPPHO 

{To  Phaon.'} 

Come  with  me ; 

My  house  will  shelter  us. 

ANACTORIA 

You  cannot  leave ; 
The  ways  are  held,  his  men  surround  this  place. 

SAPPHO 
[Tensely.'] 
Is  there  no  path  unknown  to  them  ? 

PHAON 

This  one. 

SAPPHO 

The  cliff-path,  ah !     Quick,  Phaon :  we  will  go 
Here. 

PHAON 
You  would  dare  this  with  me  ? 


SAPPHO 

Am  I  not 

Yours  ? 

PHAON 

You  will  go  ? 


1 72  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 


SAPPHO 

Even  to  the  underworld  ! 


PHAON 
Against  the  Tyrant's  will  ? 


SAPPHO 

Against  the  gods'. 


PHAON 

[Moves  with  swift  decision.} 
Come,  then ;  my  boat  is  there. 

ANACTORIA 
[Imploringly,  to  Sappho} 

Stay  !  —  there  is  death 

Your  brother  is  returned.     Stay  in  the  temple 
Till  I  can  bring  him  here. 

SAPPHO 

Not  Larichus. 

At  dawn  he  brings  his  bride.     They  must  not  know 
This  thing.  {Imperiously} 

Go  :  keep  it  from  them  —  for  my  sake 

ANACTORIA 

[Goes} 

For  thy  sake  would  that  I  had  killed  myself  ! 
[Exit,  left} 


THE  TRAGEDY  173 

SAPPHO 
[To  Phaon.'] 
Look  there :  what  gleams  among  the  olives  ? 

PHAON 

Spears. 
They  are  coming. 

SAPPHO 

[In  dread,  protectingly.] 
Phaon ! 


PHAON 

See,  the  path  falls  sheer 
Into  the  wave  —  my  arms  your  only  staff. 

\_Swingingfrom  the  cliff,  Phaon  takes  footing  upon  the  jutted 
path  below,  his  face  and  shoulder  only  visible  as  he 
reaches  upward  to  Sappho^s  support.~\ 

Still  do  you  dare  ? 

SAPPHO 

We  must  dare  all  to  be 
Ourselves.  —  Your  arms,  love !  —  Now  to  the  world's 

end, 
The  islands  of  the  Cyclops  in  the  seas ! 

[Sappho  and  Phaon  disappear  below  the  cliff.  As  they  do  so 
there  is  heard  the  low  rattle  of  greaves  and,  emerging 
on  the  edges  of  the  scene,  the  points  of  spear-heads  glisten. 
Simultaneously,  from  the  temple,  comes  forth  Thalassa  — 
her  babe  at  her  breast — followed  by  Biony  who  carries 
in  his  hands  the  lyre.~\ 


174  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON* 

THALASSA 
[Searching  with  her  eyes.] 

He  tarrieth  long  away  — 
Too  long  for  the  fever ;  yet 
At  last  will  he  come  to  me. 

[Stooping  in  the  shadow  of  the  pillar,  she  sits  on  the  lowest 
step  leading  to  the  shrine.  There,  while  the  little  boy,  in 
his  garb  of  sea-weed,  wanders  in  the  moonlight,  thrum 
ming  the  strings  of  the  lyre  with  low,  monotonous 
cadence,  Thalassa  clutches  her  babe  close,  and  sway 
ing  her  body  with  a  strange  rhythm,  suckles  the  fever- 
stricken  child.  From  there,  as  she  sings,  her  voice  floats 
mournfully  in  the  night.~] 

Hesper,  Hesper, 

Eleleu ! 

Lord  of  evening,  thou  that  bringest 
All  that  lovely  Morning  scattered  — 

Eleleu !     Eleleu ! 

Lord,  the  sheep,  the  goat  thou  bringest, 
The  child  to  its  mother. 

Eleleu ! 
\_Slowly  the  Herculaneum  curtain  shuts  off  the  scene.] 


Here  follows  the  Pantomime  of  the  Second  Interlude. 
Vide  Appendix. 


ACT   III 


ACT   III 

Earliest  daybreak  is  beginning  to  struggle  faintly  with  the 
light  of  the  low  moon,  muffled  now  by  masses  of  slowly 
indrif ting  fog  from  the  sea,  in  the  background.  Against 
this,  stand  out  vaguely  the  outlines  of  the  temple,  uncer 
tain  shadows  of  which  are  cast  upon  the  fog  by  the  glow 
of  the  still  blazing  urn.  Beside  this  urn,  white-haired, 
clad  in  his  dark-flowing  purple  and  green,  stands  the 
Priest  of  Poseidon,  replenishing  it  with  fagots.  All  is 
silent,  and  the  last  of  the  swinging  lamps  in  the  olive 
grove  flickers  out. 

As  the  Priest,  leaning  wearily  on  his  trident-staff,  moves 
slowly  from  the  urn,  there  enters  to  him,  from  the  temple, 
Phaon.  About  him  is  thrown  a  rough  fisher 's  cloak. 
He  greets  the  Priest  in  a  low  voice  and  points  back  to 
the  temple. 

PHAON 

Father,  she  rests ;  the  holy  vestals  fetch  her  there 
Garments  and  warmth. — Ah,  blessed  was  thy  beacon  ! 

Calm 

All  night  it  gazed  upon  us  like  a  parent's  eye 
Guiding  us  home  to  refuge,  when  the  lamps  of  heaven 
Themselves  were  swallowed  up  with  black,  insuffer 
able 

Fog.  Father,  speak !  What  is  this  portent  ?  And 
this  pang 

N  177 


1/8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Of  cold  and  clutching  cloud  —  what  meaneth  it,  that 

never 

Since  I  was  child,  can  I  remember  like  to  this  ? 
Yet  first  methought  I  dreamed  it :  all  last  evening 
Darkly  it  hung  with  mist  my  mind;  but  now  that  fog, 
Which  rolled  and  gathered  in  imagination,  look ! 
This  air  and  actual  world  are  palled  and  numb  with 

it. 
Oh,  if  this  thing  be  more  than  earthly,  tell ! 

[The  Priest  turns  awayl\ 

Forgive, 

I  had  forgot  thy  vow  of  silence  to  the  god. 
Yet  answer  me  in  sign :  is  it  Poseidon's  anger  ? 

\The  Priest  nods  assent I\ 

Yet   wherefore   is   he   angry?      Hath   some   mortal 

broken 
His  law  ? 

{The  Priest,  nodding  once  more  assent,  moves  past  Phaon. ~] 
Stay,  father  !  — Who  ?     Who  hath  offended  him  ? 

[The  Priest  gazes  sadly  into  Phaorfs  face,  then,  giving  no 
further  sign,  passes  iuto  the  temple.  Phaon  starts,  with 
a  low  cry  offear^\ 

Ah  me,  Poseidon,  lord !     /  have  offended  thee. 

[Going  to  the  altar,  Phaon  prostrates  himself  to  the  earth 
and  remains  there,  bowed.  After  a  brief  pause  enter 
from  the  temple  Sappho,  clad  in  the  white  garment  of  a 
vestal.  Seeing  Phaon,  she  comes  down  furtively  and 
stands  beside  him.  For  a  moment  Phaon  does  not  see 
her.  Then  as  with  a  shiver  she  touches  his  shoulder, 
he  leaps  up  beside  her,  ardent.~\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  179 

Once  more ! 

[Pausing,  he  draws  back  in  awe.~\ 
How  art  thou  changed !     Scarce  would  I  dream 


Tis  thou. 


SAPPHO 

The  virgins  they  have  clothed  me. 


PHAON 

Why 
Have  you  come  forth  into  the  cold  ? 


SAPPHO 

How  long 
Until  the  day  ? 

PHAON 

Already  it  grows  dawn; 

Were  it  clear,  the  cedars  would  be  burning  black 
Along  the  yellow  hill-sky.     You  are  chilled : 
Still  you  are  trembling  from  the  sea-damp.  —  Here  ! 

[Taking  his  cloak  from  his  shoulders  y  he  throws  it  about 

her.'] 

SAPPHO 
It  may  be  that ;  it  may  be  so. 


PHAON 

Come  in 
And  warm  thee. 


180  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Phaon,  no  ;  'tis  not  the  night 
Hath  deadened  so  my  heart ;  hardly  it  beats. 
'Tis  not  the  chill,  the  faintness  and  the  fog. 

PHAON 

What  is  it,  Sappho  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Turning  to  him,  impetuous.'] 

Ah !  why  are  we  here  ? 

Wherefore  have  you  returned  and  brought  me  back  ? 
Why  are  we  not  still  there  —  out  there  alone 
Together  in  thy  little  groping  boat, 
Lost,  rudderless,  amid  the  unimagin'd 
Glooms  of  the  gray  ^Egean  !     Over  us  — 
No  wider  than  the  space  betwixt  our  faces  — 
The  fog  had  built  a  tent,  and  shut  away 
Sky,  shore,  and  men  and  temples,  yet  our  eyes 
Had  lighted  there  an  inward  universe 
More  vast,  wherein  our  hearts  stood  still,  and  breathed 
The  awful  passion  of  the  breathing  tide. 
Ah,  why  did  you  turn  back  ? 

PHAON 
[Hesitant] 

You  would  have  perished ; 
Twice  in  my  arms  you  fainted  with  the  cold. 

SAPPHO 

Not  with  the  cold  —  with  ecstasy  of  fire  ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  l8l 

PHAON 

[Uneasily,  veiling  his  deeper  reason .] 
This  holy  beacon  gleamed  our  only  sign 
Of  haven  ;  'twas  the  god  who  summoned  us.  — 
Food,  warmth,  and  life  were  here  for  you. 

SAPPHO 

And  fear ! 
Portent  and  fear. 

PHAON 

What  fear? 

SAPPHO 

Unspeakable ! 
[To  herself.} 

Whilst  we  returned,  methought  I  heard  again 
The  croon  of  that  eternal  cradle-song, 
And  — all  of  mist  —  the  awful  Mother  rose, 
Outreaching  on  the  air  her  vacant  arms. 

[Wildly,  to  Phaon^ 

O  better  to  have  died  together  there 
Than  here  —  to  separate. 

PHAON 

That  will  not  be. 

SAPPHO 
Phaon,  they  will  find  you  here.     Come  to  the  boat 

Once  more. 

[Taking  hold  of  him  as  togo.~\ 

Come  back  with  me. 


182  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

d  awe 

You  know  not  yet 


[Putting  her  hand  away."] 


The  mightiest  cause  of  my  return. 

SAPPHO 

The  fog, 
You  said.     But  see —  the  dawn  !     The  fog  will  lift. 

PHAON 
The  fog  will  never  lift  —  if  we  go  yet. 

SAPPHO 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

PHAON 

\_His  face  taking  on  a  look  of  superstitious  fear,  his  body  — 
slowly  —  a  slave-like  bearing,  he  half  whispers  myste 
riously^ 

Sappho,  I  know  the  fog ; 

Since  boyhood  I  have  known.     This  is  not  fog. 
This  is  the  wrath  and  darkness  of  the  god  : 
7  have  offended  him. 

SAPPHO 

Look  not  like  that ! 

PHAON 

The  dove  T  should  have  killed  for  him  —  it  lives ; 
You  took  it  from  me,  but  it  was  Poseidon's. 
Therefore  I  have  returned  to  appease  his  anger. 


THE  TRAGEDY  183 

SAPPHO 

Phaon,  drift  not  away  !     In  pity  of 
Our  love,  drift  not  away. 

PHAON 

This  will  not  lift 
Till  I  have  sacrificed. 

[Going.] 

Wait  but  a  little 
And  I  will  find  a  victim. 

SAPPHO 

[  With  imperious  appeal] 
Do  you  say 
This  —  you,  that  for  our  liberty  defied 
With  me  fate  and  the  gods  ? 

PHAON 

That  blasphemy 
Hath  raised  this  cloud.     The  sea-god  demands  death, 
And  I  must  sacrifice. 


SAPPHO 

Stoop  not  to  this ! 
Our  wills  are  their  own  Providence,  and  shape 
The  mandates  of  the  immortals  to  their  ends. 


PHAON 
Wait :  I  will  not  be  long. 


1  84  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 


It  must  not  be. 

Phaon,  this  thought  itself  is  bondage.     Think  : 
To  you  I  yielded  as  my  guiding  star, 
And  now  if  you  shall  fall,  our  heaven  and  we 
Shall  have  one  darkness.     Be  once  more  thyself  — 
Master  of  life. 

{From  off  the  scene,  left,  is  heard  the  low  thrumming  of  a 
stringed  instrument.     Phaon  stops  to  listen^ 

PHAON 
What  sound  is  that  ? 

SAPPHO 

\After  a  pause.  ~\ 

Alcaeus, 

His  lyre  it  is  ;  the  tone  of  it  I  know.  — 
Come  back,  or  he  will  seize  you.     Phaon  ! 

PHAON 

[Raising  his  clasped  hands,  exultant^\ 

Lord! 
Thy  victim  !     Thou  hast  sent  him  to  my  hands. 

SAPPHO 

You  know  him  not  :  his  guards  are  with  him  there 
To  do  his  vengeance.     He  will  violate 
The  temple  in  the  dark,  and  murder  you. 

\Phaon  hastens  to  the  altar^\ 
What  would  you  do  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  185 

PHAON 
[Seizing  the  knife  of  ritual.'} 

He  comes  for  sacrifice ; 
The  god,  not  I,  hath  summoned  him. 

[  Calling  into  the  mist.~] 


Alcaeus 


Phaon,  be  silent. 


SAPPHO 
[Imploring.  ] 


PHAON 

[Mounting  the  steps  toward  the  colonnade."] 

Mockest  thou  me,  Alcaeus  ? 
Makest  thou  me  thy  slave  to  tinkling  strings 
And  thrum  of  music  ? 

SAPPHO 

[Clinging  to  him.~\ 
Hush. 


PHAON 
[Putting  her  away.] 

Come,  take  me ;  here 
Am  I. 

SAPPHO 
[Numbly.'} 
The  star  is  fallen. 


1 86  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 
{To  Sappho^ 

Fear  no  more ; 

I  have  but  drawn  him  on.     Now  will  I  be 
Silent  —  and  sure. 

[  Crouching  behind  the  second  pillar,  he  holds  the  long  knife 
drawn  and,  waiting,  murmurs  to  Sappho,  who  stands 
pale  and  spellbound.^ 

Soon  shall  the  fog  be  lifted. 

[The  low  thrumming  sounds  draw  near  and  nearer,  along 
the  colonnade,  until  suddenly  Phaon,  listening,  springs 
forward  and  strikes  blindly  behind  the  pillar  in  the 
obscurity^ 

Thy  blood  upon  me ! 

[He  leaps  back.'] 

A  CHILD'S  VOICE 

[Cries  in  the  dimness. ~\ 

Babbo! 

[From  behind  the  pillar,  Bion,  the  child,  with  arms  out 
stretched  to  Phaon,  staggers  forward  and  falls,  dropping 
from  his  hands  a  lyre.  Phaon,  staring  for  an  instant, 
turns  away  his  face  toward  Sappho,  and  points  to  the 
earth  behind  him.~\ 


PHAON 

What  is  there  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY 


SAPPHO 

[Kneeling,  raises  the  lyre  and  looks  upon  the  boy.~\ 
The  lyre  I  played.     Ah,  little  Hermes,  thou ! 
Lift  up  thy  head,  my  luck-boy.     'Tis  thy  friend,  dear, 
The  goddess. 

PHAON 

[Turning  superstitiouslyl\ 
Ha! 

SAPPHO 

The  blood  !     His  heart's  still. 
[Rising  fiercely  toward  PhaonJ} 

Have  murdered  him  —  my  elf,  my  intercessor  ! 
Blindly  you  struck  this  blow  in  your  own  darkness 
And  killed  him  —  innocent.     Look !     I  accuse  you  ! 
His  blood  is  on  you. 

PHAON 

[  Who  has  looked,  speechless,  upon  the  body,  sinks  upon  his 
knees  beside  //.] 

Bion,  my  son ! 

SAPPHO 
\_Shrinking  back.-\  His  father, 

[There  is  an  utter  silence.     Sappho,  gazing  at  the  hvo,  mur 
murs  to  herself  in  aweJ\ 
And  if  the  dove  had  died,  the  child  had  lived. 
[  With  impulsive  tenderness,  she  moves  to  speak  to  Phaon,  but 

over  his  bowed  form,  her  utterance  fails.     At  last  she 

half  whispers  to  him.~\ 

Phaon,  I  did  not  know.  —  Phaon ! 


188  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 
[  Oblivious,  touches  the  child* s  tumbled  hair^\ 

Shalt  grow 
No  taller  now  among  the  iris-reeds. 

SAPPHO 

Mine  is  this  deed,  not  yours.     My  sorrow  shall 
Be  ransom  for  you. 

PHAON 
[Rises  slowly."} 

What  hast  thou  for  me  ? 

Thou  which  hast  taken  him  !  —  O  moi  !     Thalassa ! 
[He  rushes  into  the  temple. ~\ 


SAPPHO 

[  Wildly,  following  him.~\ 
No,  no  —  not  her  !     Not  now  to  her ! 

[from  off  the  scene,  left,  is  heard  a  low  crooning  sound —  the 
voice  of  Thalassa.~\ 

THALASSA 

Eleu ! 
[Sappho,  at  the  temple  door,  pauses,  clutching  the  tapestry.] 

Where  art  thou,  my  Bion  ?     Dim 
The  way  is ;  I  hear  thy  shell 
No  more ;  strike  it  louder. 


THE  TRAGEDY  189 

[Thalassa  enters,  bearing  in  her  arms  the  babe.~\ 

Didst 

Thou  meet  with  thy  Babbo  ?     We 

Have  followed  thy  music  far, 

Yet  nowhere  we  found  him  in 

The  night.     Speak  :  where  art  thou  ?  —  Ah, 

Thou'st  wearied,  and  laid  thee  down 

Asleep. 

SAPPHO 

[Stepping  forward,  with  compassion,  intercepts  Thalassa*  s 
gaze  from  the  bodyl\ 

Come  no  nearer.     Go 
In  peace. 

THALASSA 
The  bright  lady ! 

[Starting  toward  Sappho,  she  holds  out  to  her  the  swaddled 
babe.~\ 

Feel, 

'Tis  cold  now :  will  drink  no  more 
Its  mother's  milk. 

[Taking  from  her  bosom  the  dolphin-bracelet.] 

Look,  'tis  here  — 
Thine  arm- ring,  the  shining  curse 
Thou  gavest  to  Phaon ;  take 
The  gold  thing !     Ah,  take  it  back 
That  so  may  my  little  one 
Be  warm  now,  and  drink  again. 


Tis  cold  ? 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
[Trembling] 


THALASSA 

[Fiercely.] 

Nay,  shalt  touch  it  not ! 
'Tis  mine,  mine  !     Take  thou  the  gold 
And  give  me  its  smile  again. 

SAPPHO 
[Slowly   taking  the  bracelet  from   Thalassa,  peers  at  the 

infant's  face  and  draws  away] 
Ah  me! 

THALASSA 
[Looking  from  Sappho  to  the  child  with  an  eager  hope.'] 

Thou  hast  ta'en  it  back 
At  last !     Still  why  keepest  thou 
The  warmth  of  it  ?     Mine  it  is  — 
Not  thine  —  the  babe.     Give  it  me 
In  my  arm  alive  ! 

SAPPHO 
[Anguished,  turns  upon  Thalassa] 

What  am  I 

To  thee  ?     Or  what  art  thou 
Or  this  to  me  ?  —  Not  I, 
Not  I  it  was  who  chilled  its  little  heart. 
I  say  it  was  not  I. 


THE  TRAGEDY  191 

\_Thalassa,  heedless  and  unhearing,  watches  only  the  child's 
face,  while  from  her  own  the  light  of  hope  goes  slowly  out.~\ 

Phaon  I  took  from  thee, 

Phaon  I  freed,  because  his  soul  is  mine 

And  mine  his  own ;  and  these  — 

These  little  lifeless  ones  —  I  would  have  given 

Joy  of  their  days  ;  but  now 

This  double  bolt  from  heaven,  this  aimless  death 

Hath  snatched  them,  as  the  lightning  slayeth   the 

sheep.  — 
O  say  not  it  was  I ! 

THALASSA 

It  stirs  not ;  it  nestles  not. 
Perchance  yet  the  sacrifice 
Shall  make  it  to  breathe  again. 

{Moving  toward  the  tempk.~] 
Its  father  will  know.  — 

SAPPHO 
^Placing  herself  in  her  path .] 

Not  there ! 

Go  to  thy  kin  on  the  beaches, 
Bearing  thy  sorrow.     Go  quickly 
Lest  it  shall  be  too  late. 

THALASSA 

\Smiling  wanly,  murmurs  to  the  infant.~\ 
Nestling ! 


192  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Hear  me  !     I  plead  to  you.      Passionate 
Slave  imperturbable  !     Sibyl  — 
Sphynx  of  maternity !     Hear  me 
Now ;  I  am  humble. 

THALASSA 

Eleu! 

Nine  moons  was  I  blithe  of  it, 
Awaiting  the  cry  of  it ; 
Ah,  glad  was  the  glimpse  of  it 
And  soft  were  the  fingers ;  warm 
It  clung  to  me. 

SAPPHO 
[Terribly] 

Leave  me  :  I  fear  you. 
You,  of  all  beings,  alone  I 
Fear.     On  the  waters  I  feared  you. 
Even  as  he  rowed  us  to  freedom, 
Out  of  the  drip  of  his  oars,  you 
Sang  to  him.     Out  of  the  fog-bank, 
Fog-born,  the  fate  of  you  rose,  and 
Drew  us  to  shore  again.     But  though, 
Sibyl,  I  feared  you,  yet  now  I 
Challenge.      Not  so  shall  that  vision 
Blast,  which  I  witnessed  with  Phaon 
Here  —  No,  not  so  shall  the  coil  of 
Circumstance  strangle  us  !     /,  not 
You,  am  his  destiny.  —  Prove  us  ! 

\Reenter  Phaon  from  the  temple] 


THE  TRAGEDY  193 


THALASSA 
[  Going  to  him.] 

Look,  Babbo :  'tis  gone  away, 
Hath  left  my  arms. 

PHAON 
[Looking  on  the  infant.] 

Both! 
[Gazing  away  to  the  sea] 

The  night 
Is  lifting  now. 

THALASSA 
Phaon,  hast 
Thou  sacrificed  ? 

PHAON 

[Pointing  where  Bion  lies.] 
There :  'tis  done. 


THALASSA 

[Turning swiftly  to  the  body,  stoops  near.] 
Poseidon!     Poseidon!    Ah! 

[  Crouching  over  the  body,  she  moans  low  and  lays  the  infant 
beside  it.] 

Io  !  io !     Sleep  with  him. 

[She  bows  prostrate  over  the  children^ 


194  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

[  With  sullen  fierceness,  slave-like,  approaches  Sappho. "\ 
Goddess,  be  merciful  —  thou  that  hast  maddened  me  ! 

Thou  that  in  longing 
Infinite  yearnest   for  life,   be   appeased   now.     For 

thee  — for  thee  this 
Sacrifice !    Look,  we  have  made  our  offering.     There 

is  our  life-blood : 
Warm  is  it  still,  and  the  opened  hearts  have  yielded 

their  happy 
Spirits  to  thee.    Be  appeased ! 

SAPPHO 

Phaon,  do  you  not  know  me? 

PHAON 

Long  have  I  known  thee  —  too  long.     First  in  my 

boyhood  I  saw  thee. 
Thou  from  the  awful  immortals  earnest  in  storm,  and 

thy  beauty 
Blinded  the  day ;  and  the  slave-folk  warned  me,  but 

I  would  not  heed  their 
Counsel.     I  loved  thee.     Ah,  why  —  why  now  again 

in  thy  vengeance 
Hast  thou  returned  here  to  curse  me  ?     Thou,  not 

Poseidon,  hast  spread  these 
Meshes  of  cloud  to  entangle  me  in  this  murder. 

SAPPHO 
[  Cries  aloud.~\ 

No,  Phaon ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  195 

PHAON 

Kneel,  Thalassa,  bow  down!  Bow  down  to  the 
Lady  of  Heaven ; 

Pray  thou  with  me. 

{To  Sappho^ 

O  remove  thy  scourge  from  us, 
most  wretched  slaves. 

THALASSA 

{Bowing  down  with  Phaon  before  Sappho ».] 

Bright 
Lady,  give  us  our  bairns  again.! 

SAPPHO 

Kneel  not !    No  Lady  of  Heaven  — 
Sappho  am  I,  and  a  mortal  wretched  as  ye  are:  a 

woman 
Born  from  the  pang  of  a  mother  like  thee,  Thalassa 

—  a  woman 

Passionate,  seeking  the  love  of  the  man  that  loveth 
her.  Phaon, 

Phaon !  Remember  you  not  this  place  in  the  sun 
set,  —  the  brightening 

Moon  on  the  ^Egean,  the  falling  cliff-path  below  us, 
the  crying 

Sea-birds  —  my  hand  on  thy  shoulder  ?    I  am  Sappho 

—  that  Sappho ! 

PHAON 

[Dreamily^] 

Glorious  there  was  your  face  as  you  leaned  to  me. 


196  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Hast  thou  forgotten 

How,  with  our  hands  on  my  spear  between  us,  we 

wrestled  for  mastery 
Here  ?  —  How  you   pleaded   and,  lordly,   bade  me 

relinquish,  and  conquered  ? 

PHAON 

Over  your  golden  breastplate  glooming,  your  hair  like 

the  tempest 
Darkened. 

SAPPHO 

[Moving  gradually  nearer  the  cliff,  while  Phaon  follows  — 
hesitant,  fascinated^ 

You  lifted  it  high  —  the    spear  —  and  gazed 

on  it,  raising 
Upward  your  glowing  mind  to  it,  crying  aloud  'gainst 

the  heaven 
War  on  the  tyrant  gods  that  make  men's  slavery. 


PHAON 

Starlight 
Shone  in  your  smile. 


SAPPHO 

How  you  towered,  god 
like  yourself,  —  yea,  as  even 

Now  !  —  and  the  spear  in  your  hand  grew  divine  —  a 
fiery  symbol. 


THE  TRAGEDY  197 

PHAON 
Yours  was  that  fire. 

SAPPHO 

Then  you  hurled  it  into  the 
mystery  —  hurled  it 
Singing  —  and  turned  to  me. 

\_Exulting,  as  Phaon  —  ardent —  reaches  toward  her.~] 
So! 

PHAON 
Beloved ! 

SAPPHO 

Thou  art  restored  to  me ! 
[Springing  to  the  cliff-path.^ 
Come,  then  :  Our  vision  has  triumphed. 

THALASSA 
[  Calling  low."] 

Babbo ! 

PHAON 

[Pausing  wildly,  with  instant  revolution  lapses  to  his  slave's 
posture.~\ 

Ha  !  thou  art  tempting 
Me  to  thy  power  again. 

[  Going  to  Thalassa,  who  still  is  bowed ',  stricken,  over  the 
bodies.^ 

Thalassa,  come  to  me  ! 


198  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

THALASSA 

[Lifts  her  craving  face  to  his."] 

Give  them 
Back  to  me,  Babbo. 

PHAON 
[Starting,] 

Babbo  !  —  Hark,  they  are  calling  it :  "  Babbo !  " 
"  Father  !  "     From  yonder  they  call   to  me,   lifting 

their  little  arms  hither 
Out  of  the  dark  of  Hades.  —  Cease  now,  my  Bion !  I 

hear  thee, 
Yea,  and  will  bring  ye  both  home  again. 

[Raising  Thalassa  to  him.] 

Mother  of  them,  thou  my  slave-mate, 

Come  with  me  !  I  —  thou  and  I  —  shall  draw  them 
again  to  us  —  call  their 

Flitting  ghosts  back  into  flesh  and  blood  —  warm 
again  in  our  arms.  Come, 

Come  to  the  beach  with  me:  far,  far  in  the  salty- 
weed  caverns, 

There  will  I  give  thee  them  back,  and  make  repara 
tion  ;  there  shalt  thou 

Bear  to  me  children  —  alive,  bright-eyed  avengers  of 
me,  their 

Father,  —  this  murder.  Thalassa,  lift  up  yon  little 
body, 

And  I  will  bear  in  my  son  unto  the  temple. 


THE  TRAGEDY  199 

[Lifting  the  dead  boy  in  his  arms,  he  goes  with  the  slave- 
woman^  who  carries  the  infant  child.  At  the  door  of  the 
temple,  where  their  eyes  meet  across  the  dead  forms  of 
their  children,  Phaon  gives  to  her  a  yearning  look  of  ten 
derness,  and  they  enter  the  temple. 

From  her  place  by  the  cliff  whence  she  has  watched  without 
moving,  Sappho  calls  with  anguished  appeal.] 


SAPPHO 

Thalassa ! 

\_The  colours  of  sunrise  begin  now  to  flood  fhe  scene.  Away 
on  the  left  are  heard  the  voices  of  men  and  maidens 
singing.'] 

THE  VOICES 
Gath'rers,  what  have  ye  forgot, 

Hymenceon  ! 
Blushing  ripe  on  the  end  of  the  bough  ? 

Hymen&on  ! 

Ripe  now,  but  ye  may  not  reach  — 
For  the  bride  is  won,  and  the  groom  is  strong  : 

Kala,  0  Chariessa  / 

SAPPHO 
[Murmurs.] 

The  epithalamium  !  —  and  so  the  end  ! 
[Slowly,  with  aspect  of  succumbed  despair,  Sappho  moves  to 
ward  the  steps  of  Aphrodite's  shrine.  As  she  does  so,  the 
Priest  of  Poseidon  comes  from  the  temple  to  the  first  pillar 
and,  raising  there  his  trident  toward  the  sunrise,  stands 
awaiting  the  approaching  singers ,  whose  flutes  and  lyres 
sound  nearer. 


200  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Art  thou  then  come  once  more,  O  Silent  One  ? 

[Sinking  at  his  feet.~\ 

God  of  the  generations,  pain,  and  death, 
I  bow  to  thee.  —  Not  for  love's  sake  is  love's 
Fierce  happiness,  but  for  the  after-race. 
Yet,  thou  eternal  Watcher  of  the  tides, 
Knowing  their  passions,  tell  me !    Why  must  we 
Rapturous  beings  of  the  spray  and  storm 
That,  chanting,  beat  our  hearts  against  thy  shores 
Of  aspiration  —  ebb  ?  ebb  and  return 
Into  the  songless  deep  ?     Are  we  no  more 
Than  foam  upon  thy  garment  ?  —  flying  spume 
Caught  on  thy  trident's  horn,  to  flash  the  sun 
An  instant  —  and  expire  ?     Are  we  no  more  ? 
Reveal  to  me !     Break  once  thine  infinite 
Vow  of  secretiveness,  and  whisper  it 
Soft.     I  will  keep  thy  secret. 
[Rising.] 

Thou  wilt  not ! 

Thou  wilt  divulge  it  —  never.     Fare  you  well ! 
[She  rushes  up  the  steps  to  the  jutting  shrine. ~\ 
Another  wave  has  broken  at  your  feet 
And,  moaning,  wanes  into  oblivion. 
But  not  its  radiance !     That  flashes  back 
Into  the  Morning,  and  shall  flame  again 
Over  a  myriad  waves.     That  flame  am  I, 
Nor  thou,  Poseidon,  shalt  extinguish  me. 
My  spirit  is  thy  changeling,  and  returns 
To  her,  who  glows  beyond  the  stars  of  birth  — 
To  her,  who  is  herself  time's  passion-star. 


THE  TRAGEDY  2OI 

[Turning  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  Sappho  calls  upward  into  the 
breaking  mists,  through  which  the  full  glory  of  morning 
ruddies  her  white  robe  with  its  splendour. ~\ 

Beautiful  Sister,  goddess  of  desire, 
Come  to  me  !     Clasp  me  in  your  wings  of  sunrise 
Burning,  for  see  !  I  go  forth  to  you  burning 
Still.  —  Aphrodite ! 

[She  leaps  into  the  fog  and  disappears. 

As  she  vanishes,  there  enters,  through  the  colonnade,  singing, 
the  bridal  procession  of  youths  and  girl-disciples,  accom 
panying  Atthis,  who  holds,  smiling,  the  hand  of  a  youth 
in  gold  armour.  As  these  reach  and  pass  the  silent  form 
of  the  Priest,  the  fog — increasing  from  the  sea  —  rolls 
over  the  scene. ~\ 

VOICES  OF  THE  SINGERS 

Like  the  stars  about  the  moon 

Hymenceon  ! 
When  her  orbed  smile  she  shows, 

Hymenceon  ! 

Lovers,  yield  to  her  your  light ; 
She  is  single  in  the  night. 

Kala,  O  Chariessa  / 

[  With  ever-increasing  obscurity  the  fog  closes  down,  until — 
as  the  last  of  the  men  and  maidens  pass  into  the  veiled 
temple  —  the  scene  is  involved  in  darkness  entire,  save 
where,  beside  his  pillar,  the  brooding  Priest  of  Poseidon  is 
vaguely  visible. 

Gradually,  then,  on  the  foggy  texture  of  this  obscurity,  the  out 
lines  of  another  scene  become  apparent;  and  while  the 
female  voices  within  the  temple  die  away,  and  the  male 


202  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

voices,  blending,  pass  without  cessation  into  a  song  of 
different  melody  in  Italian,  the  Brooding  Figure  is  itself 
obscured,  and  there  stands  now,  beside  the  lava  pillar  of 
the  excavation  —  the  archaeologist,  Medbery.  Simulta 
neously  the  dimness  is  pierced  by  the  rays  of  approaching 
torches,  and  enter — through  the  right  door  of  the 
Prologue-scene  —  the  Neapolitan  Labourers,  singing.~\ 

Tutt'  altro  ciel  mi  chiama, 

Addio !     Addio ! 
Ma  questo  cor  ti  brama, 

E  il  cor,  il  cor  ti  Iascer6! 

Di  bacie  d'  armonia 

E  P  aura  tua  ripiena, 
O  magica  Sirena 

Fedel,  f  edele  a  te  sar6 !  .  .  . 

Addio,  O  care  memorie 
Del  tempo,  ah  !  che  fuggi ! 

[Having  placed  their  torches,  and  with  their  picks  begun  to 
strike  the  lava  with  muffled  reverberation,  one  of  the 
Labourers  stoops  and  lifts,  from  the  newly  dug  debris,  a 
curved  object,  which  he  hands  to  the  pensive  archaolo- 
gist.  The  others  pause  in  their  lazy  digging,  and  look 
at  himJ] 

MEDBERY 
[Taking  it  in  his  hand.~\ 

A  lyre  of  tortoise-shell!  How  long  it  has  lain 
silent  in  the  heart  of  Time  !  Ah,  no  —  this  was  no 
dream.  Here  Sappho  dreams  —  buried,  but  not  dead. 


THE  EPILOGUE  203 

Here  we  shall  find  her  asleep  in  the  arms  of  her  lover 
—  the  Antique  World  :  —  And  7  shall  awaken  her  ! 
Labourers,  to  your  work !  Your  picks  are  ready ;  the 
lava  crumbles.  Scavate!  Dig  —  dig  ! 

[As   the  Labourers   resume  their  labour  and  their  song\ 

THE   MODERN   CURTAIN   FALLS. 


APPENDIX 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  INTERLUDES 
[PANTOMIME] 

verum  ita  risores,  ita  commendare  dicaces 
conveniet  Satyros,  ita  vertere  seria  ludo. 

—  HORACE  :  De  Arte  Poetica. 

segnius  inritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem 
quam  quae  sunt  oculis  subiecta  fidelibus  et  quse 
ipse  sibi  tradit  spectator. 

—  Idem. 


FIRST  AND  SECOND  INTERLUDES 


CHARACTERS 

PANTOMIMUS1  —  announcing  the  Pantomime,    "Hercules  and 
the  Sphinx"  before  the  Herculaneum  Audience. 

VARIUS,1    HORACE,1    VlRGIL,1    MAECENAS,1   POLLIO,1   OS    MutCS. 

HERCULES,  the  demigod 

SILENUS,  the  satyr 

SERVUS,  a  slave 

OMPHALE,  a  Nymph  (after 
ward  disguised  as 
the  Sphinx) 

BOY-MIMES,  as  Fauns  (after 
ward  as  Cupids} 

GIRL-MIMES,  as  Nymphs  (after 
ward  as  Psyches) 


Masked  Characters 

in  the  Pantomime : 

Mutes 


Unmasked  Characters 
in  the  Pantomime : 
Mutes  and  Lyrists 


1  Appears  only  in  First  Interlude. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE 

PERFORMED  BEFORE  THE  HERCULANEUM  CURTAIN  BETWEEN 
ACT  I  AND  ACT  II  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE 

No  sooner  has  the  curtain  closed  than  from  their 
hidden  seats  the  Herculaneum  audience  burst  into 
murmurous  applause,  mingled  with  the  cries  of  "Vivat! 
Vale,  Varius  !  Plaudite  !  "  At  this,  Horace,  Virgil, 
Varius,  Maecenas,  and  Pollio  appear  from  their  places 
[which,  during  the  Act  of  the  Tragedy,  they  have  oc 
cupied  in  a  row  beyond  sight]  and  take  seats  in  the 
first  row  of  marble  chairs. 

Here  they  are  greeted  again  by  the  Herculaneum 
audience,  whom  Varius,  rising,  salutes,  and  is  about 
to  address  when  enters,  through  the  door  in  the  cur 
tain,  PANTOMIMUS,  a  parti-coloured  figure,  garbed 
antiquely  as  a  harlequin,  wreathed  and  masked.1 

Perceiving  his  entrance,  Varius  makes  a  gesture  to 
the  audience  indicative  that  he  cannot  then  respond 
to  their  applause,  and  with  that  sits  down  to  watch 
the  ensuing  action. 

Behind  Pantomimus,  enter  [on  either  side  of  him] 
two  little  Pantomimi,  half  his  height,  exactly  re 
sembling  him  in  every  particular.  These,  as  with  a 
skipping  step  and  motion  Pantomimus  speaks  his 
Introduction,  imitate  in  dumb  show  his  every  move- 
merit  of  wand  and  gesture,  and  this  with  such 
simultaneousness,  that  they  appear  like  his  twin- 
images  in  miniature  projected  beside  him. 

1  In  one  hand,  Pantomimus  carries  a  wand  resembling  a  caduceus, 
but  differing  from  that  of  Mercury  in  that  the  heads  of  the  twining 
snakes  are  carved  as  little  masks  of  comedy,  and  the  tip  of  the  wand, 
to  which  the  flying  wings  are  affixed,  is  the  shining  disk  of  a  mirror, 
into  which  at  times  Pantomimus  peers  quaintly  at  his  reflection. 

211 


212  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Pantomimus  makes  his  entrance  with  suddenness 
and,  raising  his  caduceus  for  silence,  speaks  his  first 
four  lines  from  the  top  of  the  steps.  Descending 
then  to  the  centre  of  the  orchestra  space,  he  recites 
the  remainder,  with  agile  gestures,  to  the  low,  quick- 
thrummed  accompaniment  of  a  harpist  [within  the 
wings] . 

PANTOMIMUS 

Salve, 
Herculaneans ! 

Hush: 

Pantomimus  I ! 
Behold  my  palace : 

Up  that  slit 

Through  the  floor 
I  plucked  it.  —  Ecce  ! 

So  you  see 
How  thin  a  wall 
Divides  the  wise 

From  the  fools. 

T'other  side 
Melpomene, 
The  tragic  Muse, 

Weaves  the  plot ; 

This  side  now 
(Behind  her  back) 
I  pull  her  play 

Wrong-side-out. 

Thus  in  the  seams 
Shall  we  reversed 
View  the  design, 

And  so  discern 

How  the  crease 
In  Grandeur's  scowl 
Is  but  a  grin 

Up-side-down. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE  21$ 

Therefore,  as  critic 

Who  would  test 

Tragedy, 

Between  the  curtains 
I  slip  a  mask  on, 

Catch  the  Muse, 

Gag  her  mouth, 
Skew  up  her  eyebrows, 
And  thus  ask  pardon  : 

"  O  Olympic 

Lady,  if  so 
Grotesque  a  greeting 

Mar  and  tarnish 
Your  chaste  complexion, 
Then  am  I  certain 

You're  no  sky-born 

Goddess,  but  merely 
A  painted  drab. 
So,  lords,  a  masquerade  I  leave  you : 

A  hero,  and 

A  riddle  and 

A  heroine  — 
THE  SPHINX  AND   HERCULES :    the  riddle 

To  find  the  tragic  Muse.  —  Heaven  help  you ! 
\Exity  with  Pantomimi^  within  the  curtain  door^\ 

Enter  at  left  aisle  and  at  right  [as  in  the  Prelude~\ 
the  two  Flutists,  whose  playing  outside  has  accom 
panied  the  speech  of  Pantomimus.  These,  now 
visible,  accompany  the  ensuing  pantomime,  with  flute 
and  harp.  With  these,  enter  two  slaves  [functionaries 
of  the  theatre]  bearing  two  stage-properties,  which  they 
place  on  either  side,  near  the  wings  :  that  of  the  right- 
hand  one  represents  a  squat  pillar,  on  top  of  which  is 
the  sitting  figure  of  a  bronze  Sphinx  :  that  of  the  left- 
hand  —  a  set-piece  of  foliage  and  shrubbery.  Exeunt. 


214  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 


Enter  then,  at  left,  the  first  of  the  Pantomimists  — 
Servus,  a  house-slave,  masked  as  such.  He  places  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps,  centre,  a  low  seat  and,  beside  it, 
a  heap  of  wool  and  spinning  materials.  There  he 
prostrates  himself  toward  the  left  entrance,  as  enter 
there  —  dancing  to  harp  music  —  a  group  of  young 
girl-mimes  [without  masks],  dressed  as  Nymphs  and 
carrying  distaffs. 

In  the  midst  of  these  —  preceded  by  most  of  them 
—  enter  Hercules,  in  grotesque  mask,  which  depicts 
a  comic-dejected  expression.  He  is  wadded  after  the 
manner  of  the  comic  histrionic  vase-figures  of  an 
tiquity,  and  walks  downcast.  Instead  of  his  legen 
dary  lion's  skin,  there  hangs  from  his  shoulder  the 
woolly  pelt  of  a  sheep ;  in  place  of  his  knotted  club, 
his  hand  holds  a  huge  distaff ;  and  for  the  rest  he  is 
dressed  like  a  Greek  woman. 

He  is  accompanied  by  Omphale,  masked  as  a 
beautiful  and  amorous  nymph.  Over  her  shoulders 
she  wears  his  lion's  skin ;  in  one  hand  she  holds  his 
massive  club ;  with  the  other  she  caresses  him. 

With  coquetting  wiles,  the  Nymphs  in  their  danc 
ing  draw  the  two  toward  the  centre,  where  they  sit 
beside  the  wool  —  Hercules,  with  heavy  sighs,  begin 
ning  to  spin,  while  Omphale,  posing  in  the  lion's 
skin,  approves  his  labour.  Here  the  Nymphs,  re 
clined  about  them  on  the  steps  and  the  ground, 
execute  a  rhythmic  dance  with  their  arms  and  dis 
taffs,  singing  to  their  movement :  — 


FIRST  INTERLUDE  21$ 

Angustam  amice  pauperiem  pati 
robustus  acri  militia  puer 
condiscat  et  Parthos  feroces 

vexet  eques  metuendus  hasta 
vitamque  sub  divo  et  trepidis  agat 
in  rebus,     ilium  ex  moenibus  hosticis 
matrona  bellantis  tyranni 

prospiciens  et  adulta  virgo 
suspiret,  eheu,  ne  rudis  agminum 
sponsus  lacessat  regius  asperum 
tactu  leonem,  quern  cruenta 
per  medias  rapit  ira  caedes.1 

At  the  culmination  of  this,  Hercules,  who  has  been 
repelling  the  attentions  of  Omphale,  at  first  with 
feeble  ennui,  but  afterwards  with  increasing  determi 
nation,  now  rises  in  grandiose  disgust,  and —  snatching 
from  her  his  lion's  skin  and  club  —  repudiates  her  and 
the  Nymphs. 

Flinging  down  the  sheep's  pelt  and  setting  his  foot 
upon  it,  he  breaks  his  distaff  in  pieces  and,  threaten 
ing  Omphale,  drives  the  Nymphs  off  the  scene,  left. 
[During  this  excitement,  Servus  —  who  has  been 
standing  aside  —  seizes  the  heap  of  wool,  and  exit 
with  it  in  flight.]  Turning  then  to  the  image 
of  the  Sphinx,  Hercules  expresses  in  dumb  show  how, 
lured  by  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx,  he  aspires  to  fight 
and  conquer  the  world  for  her  sake.  Laying  his  club 
and  lion 's  skin  devoutly  at  the  foot  of  the  column,  he 

1  Horace :  Ode  II  of  Book  III. 

The  literal  translation  (by  A.  H.  Bryce)  is  as  follows :  — 
"  Let  youth,  made  strong  by  active  war,  learn  to  endure  privation 
in  a  happy  mood;  let  him  as  horseman  bold  with  dreaded  spear  harass 
the  daring  Mede,  and  spend  his  life  in  open  air,  and  midst  alarms  of 
foes.  Let  wife  and  daughter  of  the  warring  king,  as  from  the  hostile 
walls  they  look,  heave  many  a  sigh,  alas  !  lest  princely  spouse,  untried 
in  war,  provoke  the  lion,  dangerous  to  stir,  whom  bloodthirsty  anger 
hurries  on  through  thickest  of  the  fight." 


216  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

kneels,  embraces  it,  and  raises  then  his  arms  in  suppli 
cation  to  the  Sphinx. 

Thus  kneeling,  he  is  watched  furtively  at  a  distance 
by  Omphale,  who,  at  his  outburst,  has  run  to  the  edge 
of  the  foliage,  right  Hercules,  rising,  puts  on  his 
lion's  skin,  and  brandishing  his  club  heroicly  for  the 
benefit  of  the  immovable  Sphinx,  goes  off,  left. 

Immediately  Omphale  seizes  from  among  the  fo 
liage  a  sylvan  pipe,  and  blows  on  it  a  brief,  appealing 
ditty.  At  this,  from  behind  the  foliage,  run  out  boy- 
mimes,  in  the  guise  of  Fauns ;  she  gesticulates  to  them 
beseechingly.  They  run  back  and  presently  return, 
dancing  to  pipe-music,  accompanying  and  leading  a 
goat,  astride  of  which  sits  Silenus,  an  old  grotesque 
Satyr,  in  mask. 

Omphale  greets  him  joyfully  and  helps  him  down 
from  the  goat.  She  then  describes  to  him  in  panto 
mime  the  late  outburst  of  Hercules  —  his  breaking  the 
spindle,  his  enamoration  for  the  Sphinx,  etc.,  and 
prays  his  aid  and  advice. 

Silenus  pauses  an  instant  in  philosophical  absorp 
tion,  then  gives  a  leap  and  skip.  Omphale,  seeing 
that  he  has  hit  on  some  plan,  expresses  her  pleasure 
and  inquires  what  his  plan  may  be.  Silenus  bids  her 
call  a  slave.  Omphale  claps  her  hands  toward  the 
left  entrance.  Servus  enters.  Silenus  signs  to  him. 
Servus  goes  back  and  returns  immediately,  rolling  in 
a  wine-cask,  from  which  he  fills  an  antique  beaker. 
From  this  Silenus  sips  and  approves.  He  then  points 
to  the  Sphinx  and  asks  if  it  be  that  of  which  Hercules 
is  enamoured.  Omphale  assents.  Silenus  then  directs 
Servus  to  lift  the  Sphinx  down  from  the  pillar.  Ser 
vus  does  so,  revealing  its  hollow  interior  as  he  carries 
it.  Silenus,  drawing  Omphale's  attention  to  this  fact 
of  its  hollowness,  opens  the  door  in  the  curtain,  and 
commands  Servus  to  bear  the  Sphinx  within.  Servus 
does  so.  Silenus,  then,  pointing  to  the  window  above 


FIRST  INTERLUDE  217 

the  door,  whispers  in  the  ear  of  Omphale,  who,  de 
lighted,  enters  the  door  after  Servus.  Silenus  closes 
the  door  as  Hercules  reenters,  left. 

The  hero  has  discarded  his  woman's  garb,  and 
comes  forward  now  dressed  as  a  man,  with  lion's  skin 
and  club — his  mask  changed  to  one  of  an  exultant 
and  martial  expression. 

Silenus  greets  him  with  obsequious  and  cunning 
servility  and  offers  him  wine.  Hercules,  with  good- 
natured  hauteur,  condescends  to  accept  the  cup  which 
he  offers.  While  he  is  drinking,  the  window  above 
in  the  curtain  opens,  and  Omphale  thrusts  her  head 
out,  revealing  [within]  beside  her  own,  the  Sphinx's 
head.  Silenus  secretively  motions  her  to  be  cautious. 
Seeing  his  gesture,  Hercules  looks  up,  but  not  swiftly 
enough  to  detect  Omphale,  who  withdraws.  Again 
looking  forth,  as  he  turns  to  drink  again,  Omphale 
mocks  Hercules  below,  dropping  wisps  of  wool  on 
his  head,  the  source  of  which,  however,  Hercules  fails 
to  detect.  Silenus  explains  that  the  wool  is  really 
feathers,  which  fell  from  a  bird  flying  overhead. 

Hercules  now,  under  the  sly  persuasions  of  the  old 
Satyr,  grows  more  pleased  with  the  wine,  drinks 
finally  from  the  spigot  of  the  cask,  and  becomes  drunk 
— as  he  becomes  so,  expressing  to  Silenus,  within- 
creasing  familiarity  and  descriptive  force,  all  the 
mighty  exploits  he  intends  to  accomplish  in  the  ser 
vice  of  the  incomparable  Sphinx,  whose  living  proto 
type  he  declares  he  will  immediately  set  forth  in 
search  of. 

Starting  now,  humorously  drunk,  to  depart  [right] 
he  is  detained  by  Silenus,  who  points  upward  to  the 
window,  where  now  the  blank,  immovable  face  of  the 
Sphinx  looks  forth  at  the  sky.  Hercules,  bewildered, 
asks  Silenus  if  it  is  really  the  Sphinx  herself  and 
alive?  Silenus  assents  and  proves  his  assertion  by 
pointing  to  the  deserted  pedestal.  At  this,  Hercules 


2l8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON" 

addresses  the  Sphinx,  with  impassioned  gestures. 
The  Sphinx  remains  immovable.  Hercules  becomes 
discouraged.  Silenus  then  puts  a  pipe  in  his  hand, 
and  tells  him  to  play  it.  He  does  so,  and  is  rewarded 
by  a  slow,  preternatural  look  from  the  Sphinx.  At 
this  he  plays  more  vociferously  and,  surrounded 
by  the  little  piping  Fauns,  performs  a  serenade  be 
neath  the  casement,  while  Silenus,  looking  on  from  a 
distance,  rubs  his  hands  with  sly  delight. 

The  serenade  ends  by  Hercules,  on  his  knees,  im 
ploring  the  Sphinx  to  come  down.  The  Sphinx  at 
length  consents  and  the  casement  closes.  Silenus 
calls  his  Fauns  away  to  the  edge  of  the  foliage,  and 
Hercules  goes  to  the  door. 

For  a  moment  nothing  happens  and  Hercules 
knocks  on  the  steps  impatiently  with  his  club.  Then 
the  door  opens  and  enter  the  Sphinx — dressed  be 
low  in  the  Greek  garments  of  Omphale,  but  from  the 
waist  upward  consisting  of  the  sitting  image  of  the 
Sphinx,  beneath  whose  closed  wings  the  arms  of 
Omphale  are  thrust  through  and  have  place  for  mo 
tion. 

The  Sphinx,  its  tail  swinging  behind,  descends  the 
steps,  reticent  and  impassive,  attended  by  Hercules, 
drunk  and  enamoured. 

Then  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  to  the  accompaniment 
from  the  foliage  of  the  piping  Fauns,  who  play  softly 
a  variation  of  the  serenade  theme,  Hercules  woos  the 
Sphinx,  who,  at  the  proper  moment,  succumbs  to  his 
entreaties.  After  embracing  him  amorously,  she  ex 
tends  her  hand  to  him.  He  seizes  it  to  kiss  ;  she 
withdraws  it  and  signifies  that  he  must  put  a  ring  on 
the  ring-finger.  Hercules  hunts  about  him  in  vain 
for  a  ring.  Calling  then  Silenus  and  the  Fauns,  he 
explains  to  them  the  situation. 

Silenus  declares  that  there  will  be  no  difficulty ;  his 
Fauns  will  forge  him  a  ring  with  which  to  wed  the 


FIRST  INTERLUDE  2ig 

Sphinx.  At  this  joyful  information,  Hercules,  the 
Sphinx,  and  Silenus  express  their  feelings  in  a  dance 1 
with  the  Fauns,  at  the  climax  of  which  the  Fauns 
escort  the  three  masked  characters  to  the  door  in  the 
curtain,  through  which  they  pass  and  disappear, 
while  the  Fauns,  dividing  into  two  groups,  dance  off 
and  exeunt  at  either  side.  Simultaneously  the  two 
theatre  slaves  remove  the  stage  properties. 


Varius,  Maecenas,  and  Pollio,  rising  now  in  laughter, 
pass  again  to  places  beyond  sight  in  the  Herculaneum 
audience,  followed  thither  by  Horace  and  Virgil,  talk 
ing  together. 

The  theatre  slaves  then  pass  silently  across  and  the 
lights  shine  dimmer.  After  a  pause,  the  Herculaneum 
curtain  is  lowered,  discovering  again  Lesbos  —  the 
scene  of  the  Tragedy. 

Explicit  Inter ludium  Primum 

1  Before  the  commencement  of  this  dance,  Servus  has  entered  and 
removed  the  low  seat  and  wine-cask. 


SECOND    INTERLUDE 

PERFORMED  BEFORE  THE  HERCULANEUM  CURTAIN  BETWEEN 
ACT  II  AND  ACT  III  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 


SECOND   INTERLUDE1 

THE  theatre  of  Varius  remains  in  dimness,  and  its 
audience  in  silence.  A  shaft  of  pale  light  falls  upon 
the  altar  [centre],  out  of  the  top  of  which  [where  be 
fore  was  the  tripod]  are  seen  to  be  growing  lilies, 
harebells  and  vari-coloured  wild  flowers. 

At  the  same  time,  an  elfin  dance-music  is  heard  off 
scene,  and  enter  [left]  to  the  sound  of  harps,  the  girl- 
mimes  in  guise  of  Psyches,  with  little  wings.  In-and- 
out  of  the  shadows  of  the  shaft  of  moonlight,  these 
trip  a  light-footed  dance,  the  motif  of  which  is  the 
finding  and  plucking  of  flowers.  At  times  they  run, 
at  times  they  stoop,  at  times  they  pause  and  weave. 
Toward  the  end  of  their  dance,  they  espy  the  grow 
ing  lilies  on  the  altar  and,  encircling  it,  pluck  away 
the  flowers  till  the  marble  is  bare.  Weaving  these 
into  ropes,  they  dance  off  the  scene,  right. 

These  have  already  gone  when  enter  [left]  the  boy- 
mimes,  guised  as  Cupids,  the  one-half  carrying  long 
golden  sledge-hammers,  the  other  half  holding  tongs 
and  great  pincers  made  of  gold.  As  they  enter, 
there  rises  out  of  the  top  of  the  altar  an  anvil,  glow 
ing  red-hot,  upon  which  gleams  a  great  gold  ring. 
Coming  forward,  as  before  the  Psyches  danced  their 
measures  simulative  of  the  plucking  of  flowers,  so 
now  the  Cupids  carrying  their  gleaming  sledge 
hammers  and  tongs  —  their  wrists  and  ankles  fas 
tened  with  golden  cymbals  —  execute  a  dance,  the 

i  This  Interlude,  like  the  First,  occupies  approximately  the  time  of 
a  usual  entr'acte. 

223 


224  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

motif  of  which  is  the  hammering  and  forging  of  rings 
upon  viewless  anvils  —  at  the  strokes  of  their  play- 
labour  clashing  their  cymbals  together  to  the  music 
of  flutes  and  strings.  Similarly  toward  the  end  of 
their  dance,  having  discovered  the  anvil  glowing 
upon  the  altar,  they  encircle  it,  and  half  of  them 
seizing  the  great  ring  with  their  pincers,  the  other 
half  ply  upon  it  their  golden  hammers,  in  rhythm  with 
the  music. 

Finally  their  leader,  lifting  the  ring  with  his  tongs, 
bears  it  away  [left]  and  is  followed  off  the  scene  by 
the  others,  dancing. 

At  this  moment  the  door  in  the  curtain  opens,  and 
enter  Silenus  in  the  vestments  of  a  priest,  followed 
by  Hercules  and  the  Sphinx  fantastically  garlanded 
as  bridegroom  and  bride,  —  their  steps  lighted  by 
Servus,  whose  torch  illuminates  the  scene. 

Silenus  leads  the  way  down  the  steps  straight  to 
the  altar,  coming  round  to  the  other  side  of  which  he 
turns  his  back  and  faces  Hercules  and  the  Sphinx, 
who  stand  facing  him  on  the  other  side.  At  the 
same  time  reenter,  from  right  and  left,  the  leaders 
of  the  girl-mimes  and  boy-mimes,  who  —  at  either 
side  of  the  altar  —  proffer  to  Silenus  respectively  a 
rope  of  flowers  and  a  small  gold  ring.  Laying  the 
flowers  on  the  altar,  Silenus  bestows  his  benediction 
upon  Hercules  and  the  Sphinx,  to  the  former  of 
whom  he  extends  the  ring.  Hercules  takes  it  and  as 
the  Sphinx  extends  her  left  hand,  he  slips  upon  her 
ring-finger  the  gold  ring. 

Instantly  a  clash  of  cymbals  is  heard  from  the  left, 
and  a  clapping  of  palms  from  the  right,  and  reenter 
—  dancing  —  the  Cupids  and  Psyches,  who  encircle 
the  scene  just  as  Servus  removes  from  the  bride  the 
great  mask  of  the  Sphinx,  thereby  revealing  her  to 
the  astounded  Hercules  —  as  Omphale,  who  em 
braces  him,  exulting  in  her  ring. 


SECOND  INTERLUDE  22$ 

With  gestures  of  comic  resignation,  Hercules  at 
the  side  of  Omphale  follows  Silenus,  accompanied  by 
the  Cupids  and  Psyches  in  procession,  to  the  door 
in  the  curtain,  wherein  all  pass  and  disappear  to 
the  jubilant  cymbal-clashings  of  the  Cupids  and  the 
flower-rope-wreathings  of  the  Psyches.  The  door 
closes,  the  music  sounds  more  faintly  and  dies  away. 

For  a  moment  all  is  blackness  and  silence ;  then 
the  Herculaneum  curtain,  descending,  reveals  again 
the  temple  in  Lesbos. 

Explicit  Interludium  Secundum* 


OTHER   POETICAL  DRAMAS  BY 

Mr.  PERCY  MACKAYE 


Jeanne  d'Arc 


"A  series  of  scenes  animated  at  times  by  a  sure,  direct,  and 
simple  poetry,  again  by  the  militant  fire,  and  finally  by  the  bitter 
pathos  of  the  most  moving,  perhaps  the  most  beautiful,  and  cer 
tainly  the  most  inexplicable  story  in  profane  history." — Phila 
delphia  Ledger. 

"A  singularly  fresh,  buoyant  treatment  of  an  old  subject,  Mr. 
Mackaye's  '  Jeanne  d'Arc '  contains  less  pageantry  and  more  spirit 
uality  than  any  of  the  plays  about  the  Maid  since  Schiller."  — 
Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

Fenris  the  Wolf 

"A  drama  that  shows  triple  greatness.  There  is  the  supreme 
beauty  of  poetry,  the  perfect  sense  of  dramatic  proportion,  and 
nobility  of  purpose.  It  is  a  work  to  dream  over,  to  make  one  see 
glorious  pictures,  —  a  work  to  uplift  to  soul  heights  through  its 
marvellously  wrought  sense  appeal."  —  Examiner. 


The  Canterbury  Pilgrims 


"  This  is  a  comedy  in  four  acts,  —  a  comedy  in  the  higher  and 
better  meaning  of  the  term.  It  is  an  original  conception  worked 
out  with  a  rare  degree  of  freshness  and  buoyancy,  and  it  may  hon 
estly  be  called  a  play  of  unusual  interest  and  unusual  literary 
merit.  .  .  .  The  drama  might  well  be  called  a  character  portrait 
of  Chaucer,  for  it  shows  him  forth  with  keen  discernment,  a  capti 
vating  figure  among  men,  an  intensely  human,  vigorous,  kindly 
man.  ...  It  is  a  moving,  vigorous  play  in  action.  Things  go 
rapidly  and  happily,  and,  while  there  are  many  passages  of  real 
poetry,  the  book  is  essentially  a  drama."  —  St.  Paul  Dispatch. 

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THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PTTBLISHEBS,   64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


RECENT  VOLUMES  OF  POETRY 


BY   STEPHEN    PHILLIPS     (dramatic  verse) 

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"  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips  is  one  of  not  more  than  three  or  four  living 
poets  of  whom  the  student  of  English  literature  finds  himself  com 
pelled,  in  the  interest  of  his  study,  to  take  account."  —  MONT 
GOMERY  SCHUYLER,  in  The  New  York  Times. 

BY  WILLIAM   BUTLER  YEATS 

Lyrical  and  Dramatic  Poems    in  two  volumes 

The  first  volume  contains  his  lyrics  up  to  the  present  time  ;  the 
second  includes  all  of  his  five  dramas  in  verse  ;  The  Countess 
Cathleen  ;  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire  ;  The  King's  Threshold; 
On  Baile's  Strand  ;  and  The  Shadowy  Waters. 

"  Mr.  Yeats  is  probably  the  most  important  as  well  as  the  most 
widely  known  of  the  men  concerned  directly  in  the  so-called  Celtic 
renaissance.  More  than  this,  he  stands  among  the  few  men  to  be 
reckoned  with  in  modern  poetry." — New  York  Herald. 

BY    SARA    KING    WILEY      (dramatic  and  lyric) 

The  Coming  of  Philibert     in  press 

Poems,  Lyrical  and  Dramatic      cioth,  $1.30  net  j 

Alcestis:  and  Other  Poems      cioth,  75  cents  net 

"Fundamentally  lyrical  in  free  play  of  imagination,   frankness 
of  creation,  passionate  devotion,  and  exaltation  of  sacrifice." — I 
The  Outlook. 


MR.  ALFRED  AUSTIN'S 
latest  book  of  verse 

The  Door  of  Humility 

Mr.  W.  H.  Mallock  makes  the  publication  of  this  poem,  so 
similar  in  attempt  to  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam,  the  basis 
of  an  exceptionally  interesting  comparison  of  the  two  poets 
laureate,  in  which  he  declares  that  Mr.  Austin  "  equals,  and 
probably  excels,  Lord  Tennyson  in  his  general  conception 

of  what  great  poetry  is." 

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Mr*  Alfred  Noyes's  Poems 

Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne  in  the  North  American  Review 
pointed  out  recently  "their  spontaneous  power  and  fresh 
ness,  their  imaginative  vision,  their  lyrical  magic."  He 
adds :  "  Mr.  Noyes  is  surprisingly  various.  I  have  seldom 
read  one  book,  particularly  by  so  young  a  writer,  in  which 
so  many  different  things  are  done,  and  all  done  so  well. 
. .  .  But  that  for  which  one  is  most  grateful  to  Mr.  Noyes  in 
his  strong  and  brilliant  treatment  of  all  his  rich  material,  is 
the  gift  by  which,  in  my  opinion,  he  stands  alone  among  the 
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MR.  CONINGSBY  WILLIAM  DAWSON'S 

The  Worker:  and  Other  Poems 

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A  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHY 

Mr.  Percy  MacKaye  is  of  interesting  descent  on  both 
aides.  His  paternal  greatgrandfather  came  to  this  country 
from  the  Scottish  Highlands  about  1800.  His  grandfather, 
Colonel  James  Morrison  MacKaye,  a  staunch  adherent 
of  anti-slavery  doctrines,  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Clay, 
Webster,  Garrison,  Lincoln,  and  other  leaders  of  the 
time.  During  the  Civil  War,  he  was  one  of  three  com 
missioners  appointed  by  Lincoln  to  personally  investigate 
the  condition  of  the  negro  in  the  South  ;  and  his  official 
report  thereon  was  an  important  influence  among  those 
which  determined  the  signing  of  the  Emancipation  Proc 
lamation. 

His  father,  James  Steele  MacKaye  was  a  man  of 
various  talent  and  versatility.  Beginning  as  a  painter,  a 
pupil  of  Hunt,  Inness  and  Gerome,  but  losing  his  studio 
and  paintings  in  Paris  during  the  Franco-Prussian  War, 
he  became*  an  ardent  disciple  of  Francois  Delsarte,  and 
introduced  his  principles  to  America.  Thus  indirectly  he 
was  led  to  make  a  profession  of  the  drama :  as  author  of 
many  successful  plays,  the  best  remembered  probably 
being  "  Hazel  Kirke"  and  "  Paul  Kauvar ;"  as  actor  in  his 
own  plays  and  in  "  Hamlet "  and  other  plays  of  Shake 
speare;  and  as  theater  founder  and  manager  at  the  old 
Lyceum  and  at  the  Madison  Square  in  New  York.  His 
activity  carried  him  also  into  various  other  pursuits,  in 
which  he  was  inventor,  artist,  and  man  of  affairs. 

On  his  mother's  side,  Percy  MacKaye  is  of  New 
England  Puritan  descent,  his  ancestors  having  come  to 
Massachusetts  in  1632.  His  maternal  grandmother  was 
President  of  one  of  the  earliest  women's  colleges  in  New 
England.  His  mother,  nee  Mary  Medbery,  was  born  in 
Newburyport,  Mass.  Her  intellectual  activity,  which 
must  have  exerted  a  strong  influence  on  her  son,  has 
recently  been  shown  by  a  charming  dramatization  of  Jane 
Austen's  "Pride  and  Prejudice,"  lately  published. 

Percy  MacKaye  was  born  in  New  York  City,  March 
16th,  1875.  The  winters  of  his  boyhood  were  spent  in 
or  about  New  York  and — as  he  grew  old  enough — in  the 


frequent  companionship  of  his  father  in  the  theater,  espe 
cially  during  the  production  of  "Paul  Kauvar"  at  the  old 
Standard  Theater.  He  was  also  initiated  in  the  knowl 
edge  of  "behind  the  scenes"  by  his  older  brother, 
William  Payson  MacKaye,  an  actor  and  an  artist  of  great 
promise,  who  died  near  the  beginning  of  his  career.  His 
summers  —  and  a  few  winters — were  passed  in  rural 
New  England,  chiefly  at  Shirley,  Mass.,  which  he  has 
always  considered  as  home.  In  1892-93,  he  made  his 
first  essay  in  the  genre  of  poetic  drama,  by  writing  a  series 
of  choral  songs  for  hit  father's  vast  musical  drama  "  Col 
umbus,"  to  have  been  performed  in  his  Spectatorium, 
planned,  and  nearly  completed,  for  the  World's  Fair. 
Anton  Seidl,  who  had  been  engaged  to  conduct  the 
music,  said  of  this  enterprise :  "  In  the  art  of  poetic  spec 
tacle,  this  project  as  far  exceeds  Baireuth,  as  Baireuth  ex 
ceeded  the  drama  of  Wagner's  predecessors.'*  Owing  to 
an  unforseen  panic  in  Wall  Street,  however,  the  Specta- 
torium  was  never  completed,  and  soon  after — as  a  result 
of  incessant  overwork — Steele  MacKaye  died  (Feb.  25th, 
1894)  at  the  age  of  52. 

At  Harvard  College  his  son  Percy  studied  the  usual 
four  years,  taking  his  A.  B.  in  1 897.  During  his  Junior 
year,  he  wrote  a  poetical  play,  acted  by  Harvard  and 
Wellesley  students,  entitled  "  Sappho,"  dealing  with  the 
Greek  poetess  as  heroine,  but  bearing  no  other  resem 
blance  to  his  latest  work.  At  graduation  he  was  one 
of  the  speakers,  his  commencement  part  being  entitled: 
"The  Need  of  Imagination  in  the  Drama  of  Today." 
A  year  after  graduation,  he  was  married  to  Miss 
Marion  Homer  Morse,  of  Cambridge,  Mass.,  and 
went  abroad,  spending  two  years  in  Italy,  Switzerland, 
Germany  and  England.  In  Italy  he  and  his  wife  lived  in 
a  villa  on  the  Aldobrandini  estate  at  Frascati,  near  Rome, 
where  he  wrote  a  poetical  play  entitled,  "  A  Garland  to 
Sylvia."  Going  to  Leipzig,  he  matriculated  at  the  Uni 
versity,  where  he  studied  Germanics,  and  wrote  a  play  on 
the  subject  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Beowulf.  A  later  result 
of  this  study  was  his  play  "  Fenris  the  Wolf,"  published 
in  1905. 


Returning  in  1900  to  New  York,  he  taught  there  in  a 
private  school  for  boys  for  four  years.  During  this  period, 
Mr.  E.  H.  Sothem  became  interested  in  his  dramatic 
work,  and  commissioned  him  to  write  "The  Canterbury 
Pilgrims,"  as  yet  unacted,  but  published  in  1903.  In 
1904,  he  joined  the  colony  of  artists  and  writers  at  Cor 
nish,  N.  H.,  where  he  has  his  permanent  home.  There  he 
has  devoted  himself  entirely  to  literary  and  dramatic  work. 

His  third  published  poetic  drama  was  "  JeannejLAlc," 
1906 :  and  his  fourth  "  Sappho  and  Phaon,trl9077  He 
has  also  written  a  prose  version  of  part  of  Chaucer's 
"Canterbury  Tales,"  and  a  prose  drama,  "The  Scare 
crow,"  based  on  Nathaniel's  Hawthorne's  sketch  "Feather- 
top."  Besides  these  he  has  written  a  considerable  amount 
of  verse  and  prose,  including  a  lecture  on  "American 
Drama:  Some  Aspects  and  Potentialities,"  delivered  in 
Chicago,  1906;  "  Ninety- Seven,"  a  poem  read  at  the 
decennial  reunion  of  his  Harvard  Class  (published  in  the 
New  York  Post  June  29,  1907),  and  the  Prologue  to 
the  Outdoor  Masque  given  at  the  remarkable  celebration, 
in  1905,  of  the  twentieth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of 
the  Cornish  colony  by  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens. 

The  first  of  his  plays  to  be  acted  on  the  public  stage 
was  "Jeanne  d'Arc,"  produced  by  Mr.  E.  H.  Sothern 
and  Miss  Julia  Marlowe  at  the  Lyric  Theater,  Phila 
delphia,  October  15,  1906  (with  a  musical  suite  by  Prof. 
F.  S.  Converse  of  Harvard),  and  since  then  performed  by 
them  at  Chicago,  New  Yoik,  Boston,  London,  and  else 
where.  Its  success  from  every  point  of  view  has  been 
great,  and  bodes  well  for  the  future  not  only  of  Mr.  Mac- 
Kaye  as  a  dramatist,  but  of  the  whole  American  drama 
as  well. 

"  Sappho  and  Phaon  "  was  produced,  by  Mr.  Harrison 
GreyFiske,  October  21st,  1907,  at  the  Lyric  Theater, 
New  York,  with  Madame  -Bertha  Kalich  in  the  title 
role. 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

A  Tragedy.     Set  forth  with  a  Prologue,  Induc 
tion,  Prelude,  Interludes  and  Epilogue 

Decorated  cloth,  oilttop,  *!#  pages,  $1.25  net 
by  matt  $1.35 

This  Tragedy,  laid  in  600  B.C.,  and  dealing  with 
the  fate  of  the  Lesbian  poetess,  is  framed  in  an  imagina 
tive,  archeological,  setting  of  Prologue,  Induction,  Inter 
ludes  and  Epilogue.  As  first  staged  in  New  York,  how 
ever,  by  Mr.  Harrison  Grey  Fiske,  with  Madame  Bertha 
Kalich  in  the  role  of  Sappho,  the  Tragedy  itself  has, 
with  the  author's  full  approval,  been  alone  prepared  for 
production. 

Though  departing  from  certain  ancient  traditions,  yet 
— as  a  discriminating  critic  has  written  of  it — "  The  drama 
is  Greek  in  tone ;  the  tragedy  is  treated  reverently  ;  the 
characters  are  pawns  in  the  hands  of  the  resistless  gods ; 
struggle  as  they  will,  they  are  enmeshed  by  fate  .  .  .  and 
quite  the  most  notable  triumph  of  the  play  is  not  the  lyric 
passion  of  Sappho,  with  its  echoes  of  the  authentic  frag 
ments  of  her  Lesbian  poesy,  not  her  splendid  paean  to  the 
mastery  and  the  mystery  of  the  sea ;  not  the  depiction  of 
the  splendid  poetess  and  aristocrat,  all  suddenly  turned 
woman,  pleading  for  her  love ;  not  the  dainty  foppish 
ness  of  Alcaeus,  the  Greek  poet,  in  love  with  Sappho ; 
nor  the  graver  attitude  of  Pittacus,  tyrant  of  Mitylene, 
likewise  her  lover — but  the  wonderful  changes  in  the 
character  of  this  base,  callous  slave,  this  Phaon,  whose 
physical  manhood  first  marked  him  out  from  among  his 
fellows."v. .  .  "  Enter  now  the  symbolic  and  the  human 
elements.  Phaon,  as  slave,  cannot  wed.  But  by 


Thalassa,  slave-woman,  his  mate,  he  has  two  children, 
one  of  whom  is  ill.  The  father  intends  to  sacrifice  a 
dove  to  Poseidon,  to  appease  the  god's  anger,  so  the 
babe  may  recover.  Sappho  persuades  him  to  give  her 
the  dove,  for  the  service  of  Aphrodite.  The  human  ele 
ment  enters  with  Thalassa,  symbolical  of  the  spirit  of 
maternity,  of  devotion  to  helpless  bairns,  singer  of  the 
crooning  cradle-songs  of  the  world.  Henceforth  Phaon 
is  torn  between  the  passionate  dream  of  this  resplendent 
poetess,  who  seems  to  him  as  one  of  the  gods,  and  the 
saner  love  of  the  mother  of  his  children,  of  her  who 
shared  uncomplainingly  with  him  his  dull,  dank  sea-cave." 
In  this  elemental  conflict,  Poseidon,  the  angered  "  god 
of  the  generations,  pain  and  death,"  defeats  Aphrodite ; 
and  Phaon,  stricken  once  more  a  slave,  bows  over  the 
body  of  his  little  dead  son,  while  Sappho,  uttering  an 
ultimate  defiance  of  destiny,  leaps  from  the  temple-cliif 
into  the  sea.  ' 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

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First  produced  in  Philadelphia,  October  15,  1906,  by 
E.  H.  Sothern  and  Julia  Marlowe,  and  since,  by  the  same 
actors,  in  New  York,  Boston,  London  and  other  large 
cities.  Everywhere  it  has  been  praised.  The  Nation 
pronounced  it  "  a  drama  which  is  likely  to  find  a  place 
in  the  permanent  literature  of  the  American  theatre." 

Mr.  John  Corbin  wrote  of  it  in  The  Sun  (New  York): 
"  What  Lamartine  did  for  Jeanne  d'Arc  in  biography, 
and  Boutet  de  Monvel  in  illustration,  Mr.  MacKaye  has 
done  in  the  drama.  Here  for  the  first  time  on  the  stage 
we  have  the  maid  of  voices  and  visions  in  her  habit  as  she 
lived,  nobly  patriotic  in  her  homely  peasant  girlhood, 
sweetly  intimate,  unaffectedly  simple  in  her  triumph  and 
in  her  martyrdom.  .  .  .  Mr.  MacKaye  has  then,  quite 
obviously,  taken  an  honorable  place  in  the  front  rank  of 
modem  poetic  dramatists." 

"The  great  thing  that  this  young  American  has 
done,"  declares  Collier's  Weekly,  "  is  to  make  the  shep 
herd  girl  of  Domremy  mean  something  more  beautifully 
real  than,  on  the  stage  at  least,  she  has  been  before — 
make  us  see  the  girl  that  D'Alengon  saw,  and  at  the  same 
time  hear  the  voices  and  feel  the  mystery  and  power  that 
Jeanne  heard  and  felt." 

"  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  his  treatment  of  the 
Maid  of  Orleans  is  at  once  the  most  convincing  and  sym 
pathetic  yet  accorded  her  by  poet  or  dramatist,"  is  the 
confident  assertion  of  the  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"Every  line  is  strong  and  purposeful,  and  though  not 
lacking  in  the  higher  tones  all  are  couched  in  common 
language,"  is  the  opinion  of  the  Dramatic  Mirror. 
"The  author  seems  to  have  discovered  a  mean  between 
prose  drama  and  so-called  dramatic  poems." 


FENRIS  THE  WOLF 
A  Tragedy 

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"In  Mr.  Percy  MacKaye's  tragedy,  *  Fenris  the 
Wolf,* "  says  The  Nation,  "  we  have  a  play  which  is  an 
uncommonly  bold  piece  of  imagination.  In  setting  and 
atmosphere  the  play  is  highly  poetic.  The  action  passes 
before  rune-stones  in  the  northern  forest  at  day-break  or 
twilight,  in  prison  chambers,  and  by  deep  forest  pools. 
Though  it  closely  skirts  the  borders  of  the  fantastic,  it 
never  becomes  quite  fantastic.  Mr.  MacKaye  has  made 
excellent  poetic  use  of  his  knowledge  of  Scandinavian 
poetry.  In  the  recurrent  wail  of  Fenris,  for  example,  how 
faithful  is  the  reproduction  of  the  cadence  and  color  of  the 
alliterative  stave : 

*'  Free  me,  Freyja !  Frore  am  I,  frost-bit ; 
Go  we  together  into  greenwood  glad  I 
Mirk  under  moon-mist  mad,  will  meet  thee, 
Hunt  thee  from  hiding,  thy  heart-beats  hear. 

"  Fenris  is  the  only  character  who  speaks  in  Scandi 
navian  metre.  The  others  all  use  blank  verse  of  a 
nervous,  sometimes  a  little  too  nervous,  quality.  It  is, 
nevertheless,  a  poetic  venture  of  a  sincerity  and  magnitude 
for  which  there  can  be  nothing  but  admiration." 

"  In  '  Fenris  the  Wolf '  Percy  MacKaye  has  written 
a  drama  that  shows  triple  greatness.  There  is  the  su 
preme  beauty  of  poetry,  the  perfect  sense  of  dramatic 
proportion,  and  nobility  of  purpose.  It  is  a  work  to 
dream  over,  to  make  one  see  glorious  pictures,  a  work  to 
uplift  to  soul  heights." — Los  Angeles  Examiner. 


THE  CANTERBURY   PILGRIMS 
A  Comedy 

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The  principal  characters  are  Geoffrey  Chaucer 
Alisoun,  the  wife  of  Bath;  Madame  Eglantine,  the  prioress, 
and  Johanna,  Marchioness  of  Kent.  The  time  of  the 
action  is  in  April,  1 387,  and  the  scenes  are  the  Tabard 
Inn,  Southwark,  another  tavern  on  the  road,  and  the  ex 
terior  of  Canterbury  Cathedral.  The  story,  which  is 
entertaining  from  first  to  last,  has  to  do  with  Chaucer's 
adventure  with  the  wife  of  Bath  and  his  love  for  the 
prioress. 

"Every  line  of  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims  seems  to 
have  been  wrought  with  infinite  pains.  The  play  pos 
sesses  splendid  literary  qualities — and  it  is  actable." 

— Dramatic  Mirror. 

"  For  a  twentieth  century  author  to  take  the  char 
acters  of  Chaucer's  famous  stories  and  give  them  parts  in 
a  new  comedy  in  verse,  is  a  bold,  nay,  a  perilous  under 
taking.  But  Mr.  Percy  MacKaye  has  carried  it  through 
with  a  large  measure  of  success.  He  has  drunk  deep  of 
the  great  Father  of  English  poetry's  well,  so  that  the 
comedy's  delightfully  quaint  language  has  the  real  Chau 
cerian  ring.  With  much  skill  he  portrays  the  pilgrims, 
picturing  their  respective  failings  and  virtues  so  deftly  that 
they  appeal  as  strongly  to  modem  taste  as  they  did  to  our 
ancestors,  yet  preserving  generally  the  mediaeval  tone. .  . . 
Specially  amusing  is  Friar  Hubert,  a  jovial,  mischievous 
rogue,  whose  drollery  is  irresistible." — Oxford  Chronicle. 

"  Throughout  the  play  the  characters  of  these  two 
most  innocent  lovers  [Chaucer  and  the  prioress]  are  main 
tained  with  exquisite  humor  and  feeling  for  life.  Outside 
of  the  covers  of  Shakespeare  it  would  be  hard  to  find 
anything  of  the  kind  at  once  more  original  and  more 
nearly  on  Shakespeare's  level." — New  York  Times. 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 

A  Few  Early  Comments  upon  "Sappho  and Phaon.  '* 

New  York  Nation  :  "  Mr.  MacKaye's  work  is  the 
most  notable  addition  that  has  been  made  for  many  years 
to  American  dramatic  literature.  It  is  a  true  poetic 
tragedy,  classic  in  form  and  spirit,  not  always  glowing 
with  the  fire  of  genius,  but  nevertheless  charged  with 
happy  inspiration ;  dignified,  eloquent,  passionate,  imagin 
ative  and  thoroughly  human  in  its  emotions.  It  is  a  great 
advance  in  almost  every  respect  upon  his  'Jeanne  d'Arc," 
and,  whether  considered  in  the  light  of  literature  or  drama, 
need  not  fear  comparison  with  anything  that  has  been 
written  by  Stephen  Phillips  or  John  Davidson." 

Boston  Daily  Advertiser  :  "  The  fire  and  vigor  and 
beautiful  imagery  of  Mr.  MacKaye's  happy  experiment 
in  classic  form  are  evident.  ...  If,  being  suitably  staged 
and  acted,  it  fails  to  find  favor  with  the  theater-going 
public,  we  shall  be  surprised.  .  .  .  This  play  is  high- 
water  mark  in  American  dramatic  verse." 

Boston  Evening  Transcript :  "  In  fact  we  remember 
no  drama  by  any  modern  writer  that  at  once  seems  so 
readable  and  so  actable,  and  no  play  that  is  sof'  excellent 
in  stage  techmque,  so  clear  in  characterization,  and  so 
completely  filled  with  the  atmosphere  of  romance  and 
poetry."  ' 

New  York  Evening  Mail :  "  Elevated  throughout  in 
its  thought,  pure  in  its  symbolism,  absorbing  in  its  action, 
'Sappho  and  Phaon  *  may  be  welcomed  at  once  to  a 
high  place  in  our  literature." 

Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph  :  "  It  is  sincerely  to 
be  hoped  that  '  Sappho  and  Phaon  *  may  happen  to 
strike  the  popular  fancy,  for  it  will  be  an  elevating  and 
refined  addition  to  theatrical  literature." 

New  York  Times :  "  Nor  has  any  dramatist  bound 
us  in  a  spell  like  that  which  Percy  MacKaye  has  woven 
into  his  poetic  drama  entitled  '  Sappho  and  Phaon.' " 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-25/n-6,'66(G3855s4)45S 


N9  543501 

PS3525 
MacKaye,  P.  A25 

Sappho  and  S3 

Phaon. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


